


Mamas, Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up to Be Cowboys

by The_8th_Deadly_Sin



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Plot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-28
Updated: 2019-05-03
Packaged: 2019-11-28 06:11:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 12
Words: 62,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18204569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_8th_Deadly_Sin/pseuds/The_8th_Deadly_Sin
Summary: After being rescued from jail by the gang, Arthur is anxious to settle back into the swing of things. They've settled down for a while, laying low in the wake of the aftermath of Dutch's latest plan. As of now, they're living rather cozily near a town called Maxwell, and, unbeknownst to them, an O'driscoll camp. Will Dutch finally get revenge? Will Micah and Arthur ever stop bickering? Will John come back in time for the party?This is a very detailed, very thought out story with an intricate plot and escalation of events. Will involve non-con at some point, and major character death. The story is better than the summary. Read it. Or don't, I'm not a beggar.





	1. Folsom Prison Blues

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Begin with the end in mind."

“W-What'd you want?” He questioned, stepping forward slowly as the darkness shied from the light cast by the lantern he held above his head. Eyes squinting into the night, hand nervously rested on the buckle beside his gun.

“Huh?” He called, voice betrayingly frightened, despite that which he couldn’t see. It might have been a deer for all he knew, but either way he was convinced the shaking in his legs was because of the cold, and not because of the lingering suspicion he felt, that someone had their eyes on him. Multiple someone’s, even. 

“I know you’re out there!” He shouted, “C-come on out! N-now!” 

He was met with silence. A deafening silence that echoed in his ears, sending his heart racing and a magnificent urge to run shooting through his legs. He reckoned he ought to just sprint out to his horse and ride away. Never looking back. He knew they shouldn’t have taken the kid. It was a mistake. The Marshall didn’t know what he was dealing with, with these bandits. They were more than that. Organized and ruthless. Not a one of them had been caught. Caught and tried, that is. Not one. And he was certain it was them, then, watching him. 

“I-if you’ve come for the boy...go-go on an’ take ‘im. I-I ain’t gone stop ya. I know you folks! I don’t want no trouble with ya.” He tried. Sitting perfectly still for a minute or so before a harsh, deep chuckle filled the air. A silhouette in the darkness creeping forward with an authoritative swagger. The kind that made a man know he was dealing with a killer. Not someone to be messed with and even so, his clothes made him even scarier, still. Trousers black as the soul in his eyes, and a blood red vest to match. A stark white shirt and gold chains hanging from both pockets. The steel toes of his boots reflected the candlelight glow back to the trembling man, who could do nothing but watch as he encroached. Raven hair slicked back across his head, flat. A square mustache and alabaster smile to match. Devilish eyes dark and flaked with hints of evil. They seemed to glow, reflecting the full moon, which made them almost reminiscent of the devil himself. 

“And here I thought this might be difficult.” He murmured, flicking his tongue out and biting his lip. Stretching his mouth into an ominous grin as six or so men filed out of the darkness to surround him. Guns in hand though held at their sides. 

“Deputy Wiser, is it?” The man questioned. Black clad leather glove flipping the white gun in his hands over his fingers. 

The man on the porch nodded, stepping back hesitantly.

“Well you certainly are wise. Steppin’ down like that. Must have a sixth sense or somethin’. I was just about to pull the trigger when you called out. I admire your tenacity.” The man told him, chuckling lightly again, voice sadistic and volatile. Dangerous, and Wiser wanted nothing to do with it. “The name’s Dutch Van der Linde, but uh, you probably already knew that huh?” He laughed and stepped forward again. Slowly trotting up the steps, “It’s your lucky day kid. I’m feelin’ generous, and I like your gumption. Run along. Scat and I might not kill ya. Or have ya killed.”

A moment or two passed before Wiser bowed his head and handed the lantern to the man who extended his hand. Sliding past him nervously as he walked along the path to his horse. Eyed by the large group of men who followed him all the way. Watching as he mounted his horse and rode out into the night. Heart pounding, gut lurching. Head spinning. He’d just looked death in the eye. And lived.

Dutch narrowed his eyes. Waiting for the silence to come back, before moving inside.

“Oh Arthur…” He called, stepping slowly through the door. Hand pressed flat against it as he pushed it wide open. Eyes glazing the room before falling upon the slumped figure in the cell a row or so down. Back rested against the brick wall lay Arthur Morgan. A young man by the age of about twenty by now. A trouble maker for sure, but nowhere near as lawless as Dutch, nor his men. The golden boy, per say, even if he’d been running with Dutch longer than just about anyone there. He’d met him when he was a kid. A lone orphan, and Dutch took pity on him, at one point a loner of his own. Though for all Dutch’s messes, it seemed as though Arthur was always the one paying for them. At least until he was rescued by the gang, or, in most cases escaped, himself. 

Now, however, was not a time in which he could have scraped by on his own. Jamestown was infamous of its lawmen. Most of which were occupied now with those Dutch had set out as a distraction. Hence the easy rescue. Usually prisoners of a high profile, like Arthur, were sent up to the prison, rather than a rinky dink jail like this one. However he was caught just a bit out of their jurisdiction, and had yet to be transfered. That morning he would have been. So this rescue was a bit of a now or nothing type deal. A very life or death matter to Arthur, who laid sleeping rather peaceably. Hands folded over his abdomen, head rested on the pillow he’d dragged down from the piss stained bed. Feet crossed and rested between two of the bars. Ironically calm in light of the circumstances. But that was Arthur. Ever the cavalier juvenile he was. Even if he wasn’t quite as juvenile anymore.

Dutch approached him slowly. Meandering toward the cell door and flipping over the keys he’d retrieved from the Sheriff’s desk. Attempting to find the right one. Obnoxiously slow for the hope of waking Arthur, who’d done nothing in acknowledging his presence thus far. Once open he stepped inside. Staring down at the boy who breathed shallowly. A relieving sight as it always was. Dutch was very well accustomed to the fear of something happening to Arthur. Despite the boy’s resourcefulness and foxish attitude, his blunt tongue and fiery temper usually got him into more trouble than it was worth. And it wouldn’t be the first time, had he been beaten by the law. Usually for sassing, or belittling them. He had quite the way with words. A way too smart for his own good. Though that’s not to say he couldn’t take a punch or two. He was mostly tough as nails when it came down to it. Though Dutch never liked to let it escalate that far. 

The man sat on the bed beside him, gazing down at the shadow cast across his face. Hiding it for the most part. Though Dutch knew it by heart by now. Those dark, shrouded blue eyes. Striking and winsome. Wide and soft, though he did his best to hide them with his perpetual squint and tilt of his hat. His small button of a nose, which though angular, was gentle all the same. Something that was most often peppered in dirt from the riding and fighting he frequently engaged in. Never bothering to clear it off because as far as he was concerned it added more to the tough factor of his appearance. He had quite a big mouth. Metaphorically and literally. With the kind of lips, that when they curled up in just the right way, they revealed a set of eye teeth sharp enough to rip off a man’s ear. Which he’d done once before. Though, they were often chapped, and now riddled with scars. He’d gotten his lip busted in more fights than he could count. At this point his mouth was more scar than lip. But that didn’t bother him none. So long as nobody called him “Pretty boy” which despite his protests, the locals had picked up on rather quick. 

“Hey Dutch we oughta move, I dunno how much longer the others’ll-” Bill had begun to say, entering the jail block, rifle in hand. Pausing instantly at the finger that was held up to silence him.

“The others’ll be fine. They like a good scrap from time to time.” He murmured lowly. Voice creeping into almost a whisper. He nodded down toward Arthur and leaned back against the wall, crossing his ankles and arms as he stared down at him, “Kid ain’t slept much recently. Give him another minute or two.”

Bill nodded and returned to the porch. Repeating the orders to the others who waited patiently. Scattering around the place in a makeshift patrol for however long they’d be staying. 

Arthur wasn’t normally a deep sleeper, in fact, he normally grabbed his gun quicker than a flash of lighting at the sound of a fly buzzing past his ear. Jumpy and prepared for anything. That’s how Dutch knew instantly how dog tired the kid must have been. Worked to the bone for the past few days. Hardly any sleep, and hardly any food even. A slight tinge of regret pooling in his gut. They’d been so focused on landing that train heist they had utterly butchered, that he’d forgotten about the human aspect of these things. They’d been running from the law so much that he’d almost gotten rusty. Could still shoot the legs off a mosquito a dozen yards off, but as far as planning went, he’d gone downhill in a hurry. That’s usually why Hosea made the plans, or rather, revised them. Made sure there weren’t any holes in his logic. That nothing was overlooked. Though he’d been upstate for some time with Trelawny now posing as his lawyer in the hopes of springing him out of jail. With a portion of the gang’s men of course, in case things got hairy. Though wherever Hosea was concerned, things normally went fairly smooth.

Another minute or so passed before Arthur stirred. Groaning softly as he shifted his shoulders across the brick wall. Repositioning his head on the pillow behind him. Leg twitching as was his inclination when something was amiss. His sixth sense as he’d come to call it. Prompting him to open his eyes, slowly, turning to face the figure beside him, which at the moment was a bit too dark to see, until he stood up into the light. A devilish smile greeting him. He sighed deeply. Usually when something didn’t feel right, it wasn’t because of Dutch, or the family as he’d come to call it. Dutch didn’t much like the title of “gang”, and insisted they were much too close to don that description. Usually, he was about to get into a fight when his sixth sense kicked in. Or worse. But he was fortunate this time. Only a little bit frustrated and confused by the fact that he’d slept through his rescue.

“Any particular reason you didn’t wake me?” The boy questioned lightly, pulling his feet up as he stretched and stood. Rotating his neck as he followed Dutch out of the cell.

“I dunno, you looked peaceful. And for once your mouth wasn’t moving at the speed of light.” Dutch replied, a grin spreading out over his face as he glanced back at Arthur who rolled his eyes and moved to collect his things from the locker by the door. 

“Whatever old man.” He snickered, locking his belt around his hips as Dutch chuckled deeply, admiring the guts Arthur had always seemed to have in the face of Dutch, who found his rebellious flickers amusing for the most part.

“Who you callin’ old, kid? I could still lay you out if I wanted to. You'd best watch your mouth.”

“Oh you talk Dutch, but you have yet to deliver.” Arthur fired back. Grabbing his hat from the desk and pulling it down over his eyes like he normally did. In an attempt to cover that face. That enigmatically alluring face he had the urge to hide for an unfathomable reason.

“Come on, son, the boy’s are waiting outside.” Dutch told him. Watching Arthur who made a quick scan of the room. Making sure he hadn’t forgotten anything, before following him out. Met at the door by none other than Bill Williamson and surprisingly, Reverend Swanson.

“What slimey hole’d you crawl out of?” Arthur murmured, saddling Boadicea, as Swanson handed him her reigns. Smiling as he was responded to by a lazy, half-sobered sneer.

“We were a bit short handed. Needed some men to intimidate any law left behind. Believe it or not Arthur, but the Reverend here was so kind, as to volunteer.” Dutch supplied. 

“Sure. If only for the after party and the whiskey.” Arthur murmured. Shoved lightly by the man who rode up beside him.

“That’s enough, Arthur.” Dutch chastised. Small smile tugging at his lips. Not for the boy’s comment, exactly, but rather the accuracy of his claim. In that Swanson had not in fact, volunteered, rather, Dutch had enticed him with his finest brandy. Also assuring an essentially danger-free mission. Guilting him with his lack of contributions to the gang as the cherry on top. So in essence, Arthur was right. So right that it was almost laughable. That was why Dutch considered this “gang” a family. Because they knew each other well enough to be considered blood, and rightly so. He couldn’t say the same for Colm and his boys, who likely didn’t even bother to remember one another’s names. Though he wasn’t about to taint this well executed rescue mission with the thought of his rival and arch enemy. Instead trotting along beside Arthur, who followed Bill along the narrow dirt paths away from the main roads. Joined soon by those who’d cleared the way for them. Meeting up first with Kieran, the O’Driscoll turned ally after Colm murdered his sister, Annabelle, in an effort to avenge his brother, whom Dutch had killed. Before escaping, he managed to stab Colm in the face, permanently adorning him with a deep, gruesome scar over his left eye. Then aiding Dutch and the Van der Linde’s; vendettas against Colm O’Driscoll their uniting factor.

Arthur was surprised to see him out of camp. Kieran was once a loud mouth; volatile and quick with a gun, at least, that’s what he’d always heard of the boy who was not much older than he was. Though after Annabelle’s death, he’d quickly diminished into a timid, quiet, nervous wreck that jolted at the thought of even holding a gun. A weapon which presumably reminded him, in one way or another, of his sister’s murder, though no one could be sure, as he never spoke about it. So given his, general uselessness outside of the camp, he never left it. Though the same could be said about Reverend Swanson. Both were there, however, and even if Arthur could heckle Swanson all day, he fell silent when he saw Kieran. Stoic and tranquil as he emerged from the brush to join them. Nodding to the group, though never uttering a word.

Next down the line was Lenny, the dark skinned youth who was both excited, and apprehensive in the face of danger. A year or so younger than Arthur, he was a bit rambunctious. More so, than Arthur had ever been. Though his toils and generally, hard life, had taught him to be clever. To think about things before he did them. He was intelligent too, well, more intelligent than anyone might presume upon meeting him. Afterall, people were still getting use to the fact that all people were equal. Especially in the south, where they found themselves predominantly, even if Dutch hated it. So he had to be even smarter. Quicker and cautious. He read quite often. As often as he could. Especially when Jenny offered to help him, given his obvious affection toward her. He was a good kid. A smart kid, though he couldn’t have been that smart, having joined Dutch’s gang. Though, from what Arthur knew, he didn’t have much of a choice.

Javier rode up shortly after, only a little ways down farther than Lenny had been. Chastising Arthur as he rode beside him. It hadn’t necessarily been his fault, being imprisoned. As it had been the unintentional outcome of a rather spotty plan that had only been thought through half way. After the train heist was botched, on account of the armored train car, with a damn minigun guarding the flatbed in front of it, it was clear that Colm had gotten to the train before they had. Several dozen of his men riding alongside it, which made repossession quiet difficult. Dutch had called a retreat, in vehement irritation, though Javier and Arthur came up with the idea to ride through the nearest town, which happened to be Jamestown, and round up as many officials as they could. Riding hard and fast, leading them to Colm and his men. Then vanishing into the woods. At least, they would have, had Arthur not been captured in the process. Something Javier would nag him on, likely for the rest of his life. In all the commotion, the law and O’Driscolls had a shootout. One distracting enough for Dutch and the others to board the train and rob it blind. Triumphantly prideful in his proteges, and entirely satisfied with the turn of events, until Arthur’s absence was brought to his attention.

So Javier was very much amused, though Dutch was not, scolding the man with an intense, warningful glare. No man left behind was a motto they very much lived by, though Javier had made no attempt at rescuing, or aiding Arthur after realizing he’d been caught. Assuming he’d be rescued anyway. Though it was brought to his attention later by Dutch just how dire Arthur’s situation was. If he were transferred to a federal prison, there’d be almost no way to ensure he wouldn’t swing. At least none of the easy, casualty free, variety. So Javier shut up. Realizing and remembering what he’d been told. Riding alongside the others silently as another member of the gang sprung from the trees. A newer member, one by the name of Henry Masterson.

Henry was a younger man, climbing up around his late twenties. Big fella, almost more so than Bill. A cousin of his, or so he said, though the faint air of animosity and friendly rivalry left a rather ambiguous hole where that statement lie. Not that anyone questioned him. He could shoot, he could follow orders, and he didn’t test his luck. Essentially, he fit the bill, and as long as he knew his place, Dutch didn’t mind not knowing anything about him. Apart from what little Bill had told him. He expected him to move on soon. From what he gathered, Henry was a nomad. Moving from gang to gang. Though made clear his distaste expressively for Colm O’Driscoll which was another reason Dutch didn’t mind him. 

Once certain everyone was accounted for, and they weren’t being followed, they headed back to camp. Sending Lenny out to round up the others and meet at Emerson's peak. The mountain on which they’d set up shop. A steep incline with ample room and obvious advantage to any prying eye, or potential threat. Once home, Arthur was greeted by the girls, who were thankful for his safe return. Mary-Beth and Karen instantly going on to question whether or not he’d gotten in a fight with one of the deputies. Looking for an exciting story as Tilly listened in discretely. The others quickly scattered to their ideal resting places. Kieran went back to his duties of helping Mr. Pearson skin and prepare animals for cooking. Swanson joined Uncle by the liquor cart, Bill and Javier retired to their tents, and Dutch watched the gang from his usual perch by the fire. Peering through the flames at Arthur who sat on the ground in front of the girls who circled around him. Molly and Susan even joining after a while to hear the boy’s story. One that was no doubt an absolutely over exaggerated fabrication and in no way true. Still. It was nice to see everyone happy. For the most part. 

“I’m glad that he’s back.” Abigail said suddenly. Snapping Dutch from his daze as he turned to look at her. Smiling softly at the baby resting at her hip. Chubby arms wrapped around her waist. Little Jack. At least half a year old by now. Though Abigail found little comfort in that fact. He was healthy, and she was grateful, but she was no kind of mother, especially when she’d expected John to be there for her. And he wasn't. Dutch could see that in her eyes, plain as day. Shaded and baggy as they were. She was tired. Exhausted. And it wasn’t necessarily caused by a lack of sleep.

“Wish I could say the same about John.” She muttered, glancing at Arthur. John was only a bit older than the boy. His brother by all accounts but blood. And yet she knew, even so, if it were Arthur, he’d have never left her. None of these men would, as cold and hot-headed as they pretended to be. Not even Dutch, she figured. But John, John was a special kind of man. If he was even a man at all. He ran from responsibility. He was careless, stupid, oblivious as to the repercussions of his actions, a childish brute with no sense of any kind, a soulless bastard with no remorse, and yet, she was inconceivably and irrevocably in love with him. Something that drove her absolutely mad, as she could not hope to fathom it. 

“Abigail, don’t you worry about that boy. You’ve got plenty of people here to take care of you, and little Jack. He’ll come around one of these days. I’m sure of it.” He reassured her.

She smiled insincerely and turned away. Pausing, hesitating, wishing she could ask him if he knew where the man was. Though knew the answer would be “no”. Wishing she could grow past the delusion of hope. Wishing she could stop thinking about him. And yet, every time she looked into Jack’s jovial, careless eyes. All she saw, was John.

 

*

 

It wasn’t long before the others returned. Dutch rose to meet them, as did most of the others, Arthur helping Davey down from his horse, as he’d been shot in the shoulder. Bill moved to help Sadie next, but was quickly brushed off. She was entirely drenched in blood, though there was not a scratch on her. Her eyes still bore that wicked, wild and reckless glaze. One that would take a while to wear off. The others knew that well, thus giving her space as she stumbled unsteadily into the night. Resting on the rock just out of reach of the firelight glow. Where she’d likely sit for the rest of the night. 

Mac quickly jumped down from his horse and took Arthur’s place in escorting his brother to the medical tent where Ms. Grimshaw would tend to his wounds. The girls already scrambling to provide the supplies. Arthur watched, a bit distraught. Given that Davey had risked his life for him, and been shot in the process. Even if they never got along all that well. Though the guilt quickly wore off as he remembered just who he was sympathizing with. Davey got shot every other week. It would have been stranger, in fact, if he hadn’t been shot. Boy had more scars than skin. Dutch retreated to the side with Lenny, making sure to be given a brief synopsis of what had occured after he’d arrived. There was typically a power struggle between the Callander boys and Micah, though this time, they seemed to work copacetically. As far as Lenny could tell. He’d ask Sadie tomorrow. Or the day after. Depending on when she came down from her high.

In the meantime, Micah had stalked up behind Arthur who stood still watching the commotion going on around him, slapping his hands down on the boy’s shoulders, which elicited a small jolt and sneer. A brief shrug and sidestep as Micah roughly rubbed his thumbs into and massaged the back of his neck.

“Sorry I couldn’t be a part of the welcoming party, sweetheart. Had a whole, welcome home speech planned!” He snickered. Following Arthur as he shook his head and sauntered away. Seating himself on a log by the fire.

“I’m sure you did Micah. Right there with my eulogy.” He retorted. Giving the man a sideways glance as Micah seated himself purposely too close for comfort. If only to be the obnoxious fool he was.

“Oh you know me, Morgan. Gotta be prepared for anything.” He chuckled maliciously. Slinging his arm around the boy’s shoulder as he gazed into the fire with dangerous eyes. 

Micah had recently joined the family. Young, though old enough to call Arthur and the others “kid”, from time to time. He was odious and contemptible most times, though he did seem to have particular loyalties. To Dutch most notably. Even if Hosea had been the one to recruit him. He’d been a lone wanderer for several years, or so he said, but after aiding Hosea escape Caldega, a large city reminiscent of Saint Denis, after being recognized by a bounty hunter, he was welcomed with open, yet warry arms. He’d proven himself a number of times, whether it be in shootouts, or retaining valuable information but something about him irked Arthur. In a way that made him difficult to tolerate. Let alone trust. 

Micah was very much a wolf. Testy. He wanted to know just where he sat in the pack and whose ass he had to kiss to get closest to the Alpha. In regards to the line of succession, Dutch and Hosea were about even, though for obvious reasons, Dutch was the head honcho. Beneath them, immediately, was Arthur, and perhaps John, if he’d stuck around, but after him, the line got spotty. Maybe it was Javier, on a good day. Maybe Bill. Or Charles. Or any number of men. Something that made Micah intent on taking that spot. Arthur’s spot, more particularly, though he figured he’d have to work a bit more for that kind of recognition.

In the meantime, he’d just annoy the shit out of the boy, hoping perhaps to break, or crack him so that he could take his place. He didn’t like being a lacky, however, given the circumstances he figured he could cope. Afterall he’d never exactly had a family before. And if he wanted to he could be particularly vicious. So his constant belittlement and irritation of Arthur was more playful than violent. For now at least. Who knows, maybe the kid might grow on him. Or he might grow on the kid, though he doubted it. Arthur didn’t trust much of anyone unless he knew them for an amount of time Micah wasn’t willing to invest. Not that he cared about the runt anyway. Personally. Objectively, of course he cared about Arthur. He made Dutch happy. And when Dutch is happy, everyone’s happy.

 

*

 

“Hey there Abigail.” Clive said. Deep, typically rough voice, soft and hesitant. He held his hat in his hands, tight. Almost too tight as he wrung it nervously. Hair slick with sweat across his forehead as he gazed down sympathetically at the woman who cradled Jack in her arms. She gave him a hollow smile. One he saw through, causing the small grin on his face to slip a bit.

“Hey Clive.” She replied, tone wavering. She was tired and he could tell. He had a way of reading Abigail. Knowing when she was upset. And he guessed a number of the camp’s members could too, but none of them much cared. They had their own troubles to worry about. And he supposed he did too, but things had been especially hard on her, and he’d hate for her to feel lonely, or scared. Or anything other than happiness, which was what she deserved.

“I, uh, I got this, for-for Jack.” He told her, holding out a small silver rattle with two balls on the end. Smiling softly as she took it. Her hand so small and soft in comparison to his. Watching as Jack wrapped his chubby hand around it’s base. Waving it and giggling. 

“Thank you, Clive.” She said. Sincere, and quite dreadfully sad. He nodded politely and turned away. Placing his hat back over his head and wandering to his tent. 

Clive was a relatively new member. Though he’d been around longer than John had been gone. Only briefly meeting the man, however, before he vanished. He didn’t fancy Abigail. Clive didn’t. However, he had been a rancher. A successful one at that. He’d inherited his father’s land, fallen in love with a beautiful woman, and had two daughters and a son. He’d had a good life. One of pure fantasy. And so when it came to an end, though entirely and utterly shattered, he wasn’t surprised. He’d been out in the field tending his crops when they came. Swarms too many to count. Men, if you could call them that, flocking into his fields. He’d attempted to fight them, running back to the house, though was cracked over the head with the butt of a rifle. When he woke up, his family was dead, his house was burned, and his livestock had been slaughtered. After that he went on a murdering rampage that didn’t end for nearly five years. Until the last of those men had been killed. And by the time he was done, there was no chance at starting anew. He was an outlaw. And so like the rest of them, he was rescued by Dutch. The angel that raised him from perdition and gave him a purpose. 

Abigail was not the subject of his affection. But she was a sad reminder of what he had lost. And more than perhaps anyone in the family ever could, he hated John. For what had been taken from him, that boy gave away freely. Like he didn’t even know what it was worth. And so, without anyone really asking him to, he took care of her and Jack. Never overstepping his boundaries, or at least, never intending to. Trying to be a better man than John, even if he was a killer. A stone cold killer. And perhaps that’s all he was. But at one time or another, he was a man. And whatever remained of that man demanded he pay for his sins, if only to pay for another’s.

“At least someone cares about us, huh Jack.” She murmured. Watching as the stocky, strange man shuffled away. Glancing once or twice over his shoulder. All the sorrow in the world laden in his dark eyes. Leaving her to wondering if John ever had that kind of pain in his face. In his heart. Knowing what he’d done. 

She figured not.

 

*

That night the members of Dutch’s gang drank until they’d perpetually drained the valley of liquor. An excessive amount that, if Hosea were here, he’d reprimand them for. It wasn’t smart for outlaws to get plastered. Not when they lived in a state of turmoil and constant movement. Though Dutch figured so long as _he_ was sober, everything would be fine. Watching all the members of his “family” as if they were children. And in a way, they were. His children. From Arthur, one of his very first orphan proteges, to even Uncle, who though he was likely the oldest of them all still had a place in Dutch’s heart. Albeit a small one. He couldn’t help the smile creeping over his face. One that was almost so big that it hurt. Attempting to draw his attention down to the book in his hands, and the fancy words printed on the paper, though unable to ignore the young, jovial couples dancing like fools around the fire. Jenny, and Lenny. Ms. Grimshaw and Uncle. Mary-Beth and Mac. Karen and Bill. Molly and Micah of all people. Even Abigail and Clive, who was a very respectable dance partner. And there, in the middle of them all, an absolutely plastered, in every manner of the word, Arthur Morgan, who was doing his best to do what Dutch could only assume was his ham-fisted attempt at dancing.

Multiple times he fell over, near face planting, before an unsteady hand slammed against the ground and pushed him back up. Bottle in hand as he grew weaker and limper. Closer and closer to passing out entirely. Nearly dozing off into the fire before Dutch managed to grab a tuft of his collar and drag him to his feet. Met by a quiet “Hey Dutch.” and half open eyes accompanied by a dopey smile. One that suppressed a gag and and then coughed for several moments as Dutch slung one of the boy’s arms over his shoulder. Guiding him slowly to his tent. Practically carrying him, given how much he was dragging his feet.

“I think, you’ve had enough, Mr. Morgan.” He stated. Laying his accomplice down on his cot, stomach first, in case he threw up in the middle of the night. Though he’d likely keep an eye on him anyway. Chuckling at the drunken murmurs escaping the confused and dazed Arthur who attempted multiple times to lift himself back up. Pushed down time and time again until he’d settled into his bed and gave up. Long, black lashes fluttering against flushed cheeks. Kid was going to have one hell of a hangover. 

“Get some rest, son.” He murmured. Smiling lightly at Arthur’s closed fist still around that bottle. It was good to have him home. At least one of his sons. Now John, John was likely a lost cause and it killed him to know Arthur was the only one he had left. His only son. Real son. That he knew he could trust. Rely on. He knew Arthur would take a bullet for him without question, not that he’d ever ask him to. That he’d lay down his life at a moment's notice for the man. He couldn’t say that for the others. As much as he loved them, he wasn’t sure if they were anywhere near as loyal as his boy. His son. John held a lot over Arthur. His size, his spirit, his tenacity. His age, perhaps even his wit and charm. But Arthur held one thing above John, perhaps more important than it all. 

Loyalty.

You can fake you, you can forge it, you can pretend you have it, or know what it is. You can lie and cheat and make yourself think you’ve got it, but loyalty is the one thing you can’t just have. It’s something that’s born. Something that’s molded and shaped. Given life and direction. His family meant more to him than anything, but Arthur held a special place in his heart. For he was loyal to Dutch, and Hosea. And Hosea and Dutch were loyal to him. It was a circle. And God help anyone who tried to break it.


	2. Run of The Arrow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "A snake which cannot cast its skin, must die."

The next morning was a dreaded affair. The sun was hated more that day than perhaps it ever had been since the dawn of its creation. Squinted eyes belonging to begrudged camp members, were adverse to making contact with anything above ground level. All grinding their teeth in revulsion of the light so carelessly beaming down at them. Groans of dissatisfaction and fatigue the only form of communication amongst those who’d awoken to the regret of the choices they’d made the previous night. Malfeasance paying them back in kind. It had been a considerable amount of time since this much celebrating had been done. And in light of the circumstances, Dutch didn’t mind the sluggish moans and groans of the camp’s residents. Small smirk hidden at the sight of their vindictive irritation and unmotivated movements. Hangovers and chores certainly did not coincide with one another. 

Of the great majority, which was just about everyone; Dutch, Sadie, and Kieran were the only entirely sober individuals around, being that none of them had drunk a drop. Dutch for the state of his responsibilities, Sadie; due to her fugue state, and Kieran for the fact that he hated alcohol. Another mystery about him he refused to divulge. Ornery, and quiet as he often was, no one was ever tempted enough to ask. There was also, of course, the purportedly superhuman, Mac Callander, who seemed immune to the various properties of alcohol, meaning he was incapable of becoming inebriated. Though he remained at his brother’s bedside. Giving him hell as Ms. Grimshaw changed out his bandages. Hopefully, however, those afflicted would recover soon. By that afternoon or anon. Given that Hosea was due in on a train that day. Something Dutch should have taken into consideration the day prior, though it had slipped his mind. Although given his specific skill set he was sure he’d be able to cooerse the man into a state of leniency. Especially given that the celebration had been held in Arthur’s honour, and much like Dutch, Hosea had a soft spot for that boy. 

“Mrs. Adler, would you be so kind as to join me for breakfast?” Dutch questioned, capturing Sadie’s attention as she’d begun to wander numbly past. Pausing and slowly turning her body to face him. Face ashen and lifeless. Shoulders shrugged, lenient gait giving her an almost statuesque appearance. Very obviously tired and yet, still entirely ruthless. She could cut a man’s head clean off without even blinking when in this state. 

She glanced down with wide, soulless brown eyes, empty and chasmus, at the plate he slid across the table toward her. Steaming and enticing in a way that made her gravitate toward him, as it had been nearly a day since she’d last eaten. Her lips parted, as if she might say something, though nothing came out. Instead she sat softly in the seat across from him. Barely making a sound as she began to eat. Slow and steady. Quiet and eerily calm.

“How are you this morning?” He questioned, leaning against the table curiously; inquisitive eyes studying her as he tilted his head. Waiting patiently for the reply he knew would take a moment to formulate. Arms crossed and laid across the table top as she slowly dragged her eyes up to meet his. Hollow, and empty.

“Fine.” She murmured. Dried blood on her face cracking apart as her mouth moved. Hesitant and thoughtful as she took a sip of his coffee, which he offered with no qualms. Sympathetic and silent. 

Sadie was a unique character. A woman who was quite possibly a more effective killer than any single man in the camp; perhaps even Dutch. She was an incredibly, awe-inspiring, no-nonsensical woman who was capable of feats near impossible to fathom. For instance, the frenzied rampages on which she often embarked when the location of an O’Driscoll camp was brought to her attention. Her weapon of choice, was a knife; specifically the one used in the brutal murder of her husband. It was a wonder she ever survived. Each time, slicing near every man beyond recognition without even a sliver of mercy; stoic and unbelievably calm. Drenched in blood whenever she returned, though never wounded or maimed in any way. Something that made the others both fear and respect her. Even Dutch. 

“How’d you do?” He inquired. Gazing at her inquisitively as she leisurely held up eight fingers. The equivalent of eight men. Impressive. He was sure they hadn’t all been with a knife, but impressive still. Lenny had told him that the Callander boys, collectively had only killed about four. As far as Micah and Clive were concerned, he had no idea, though they likely hadn’t surpassed Sadie. He wasn’t sure anyone could. She truly was a force of nature.

He nodded, watching her finish her meal before slowly folding her hands together. Blood crusted across her knuckles stiffening them as she moved her fingers. Looking up at him tacitly. Knowing what he was about to ask. The question he always did. He smiled, flattered that she knew him so well.

He trusted Sadie, and she knew it. She was reliable. Sturdy. Didn’t shy from pain. Wasn’t intimidated easily. And perhaps she wasn’t as loyal as she could have been, but trustworthy without a doubt.

“How’d Micah do?” He asked.

She sighed inaudibly. Holding up two fingers.

“Any conflict?” He continued.

She shook her head. Normally, she was fairly loud. Opinionated, and perhaps even a bit obnoxious, however after these rampages, she was notoriously silent. She’d recover soon enough and be back to normal, though truth be told, he preferred this Sadie Adler. The one with killer eyes and a morbid agenda. It reminded him of himself, when he was, particularly angry. 

“Thank you.” He said. Nodding to her as she stood and wandered off. She’d likely go to the creek a ways down the hill to wash off. Mary-Beth or one of the other girls typically joined her. Though not for Sadie’s protection, but rather for everyone elses. 

Once finished with his own meal, he stood. Scanning the camp, ensuring everyone was doing what ever chore they’d been assigned. Glancing back over his shoulder at Arthur’s tent when it occurred to him that he hadn’t yet seen the boy’s face. Peering inside, finding him; low and behold, still curled up on his cot. Snoring near inaudibly at the man’s lackadaisical approach. Rubbing his hands together in the frigid morning air. Exhaling softly into his palms. Glancing down at the bottle the boy had finally dropped. Still half full of liquor. He smiled, bending down to grab it. Swirling the liquid and grinning as he stared down at the tuft of unkempt hair on Arthur’s head. 

“Wake up son.” He said. Giving the boy a chance to awaken of his own accord before dousing him with whiskey a moment later, causing a befuddled Arthur to shoot up onto his feet, unsteady and unable to maintain his balance as he fell back down, slumped against his bed. Discombobulated and confused. Gazing up at the man with glazed blue eyes that focused and unfocused randomly, as he rubbed his damp head. 

“Hey Dutch.” He murmured. Glancing around unhurriedly as the world slowly returned to him, eyes unblurring, pounding headache greeting him as he groaned loudly. Slowly dragged his eyes up the man’s legs; pausing when he saw the empty bottle in his hand.

“Hey Dutch!” He said again, though this time more offended. Pulling himself up into a slanted stance as the man stood, unintimidated. Smiling at him with an audacity Arthur could not fathom. Appearing to take a fighting pose of some kind. Fists curled, legs evenly parted. Left-sided and one blow from caving in. Dutch simply laughed at him, patting his shoulder as he stepped outside. Placing the empty bottle on the table and turning around in just enough time to catch him as he tripped and nearly face planted into the dirt. Wincing at the sun which both blinded him and intensified the insatiable growl and whoosh of blood pumping in his ears. Aggravating his brain which pounded against his skull.

“Alright now, get up.” Dutch ordered. Releasing the boy who’d begun to doze off in his arms. Standing him up, arms crossed as he waited for him to recover. Eventually greeted by an alert, though drained and drowsy Arthur Morgan, who yawned and scratched the back of his neck. Peering at Dutch who obviously had an order of some kind he had yet to relay. Sighing as he ran a hand through his slick hair. 

“Pearson needs some fresh meat.” The man stated. Repeating himself a number of times, until he was sure Arthur had actually heard him, communicated by a curt nod and pinching of the bridge of his nose. Hands on hips as the boy made a quick sweep of the area. Recalling that his guns were in his tent. Grabbing them, only to realize, that his bow, was on his horse. And given the small game they tended to hunt, the guns wouldn’t do much good. Sneering at Dutch who smirked at his groggy indecision. 

“I usually go with Charles.” Arthur murmured after a moment. Scanning the camp, until remembering that he was upstate with Hosea and Trelawny. Stretching slowly and obnoxiously as the man eyed him.

“Well, maybe you can take Lenny. He doesn’t hunt much. Maybe you can teach him something.” He offered. Gesturing to the younger man who was sat by the fire with Jenny. Both hanging their heads, obviously inebriated and debilitated.

“Now that’s assuming I got anythin’ ta teach. That’s why I take Charles, Dutch, ‘cause he’s in the process of teachin’ me.” Arthur replied. Snarky and blunt; that half smile of his making up for the insubordinate tone.

“Well I don’t care who you go with. Just get it done.” Dutch advised, retrieving a cigarette from his vest pocket. Placing it between his lips. Arthur glanced at him, instinctively grabbing his matches. Striking one against the heel of his boot. Offering the flame to the man who accepted it. Giving a few test puffs before pulling it from his lips and nodding to the boy in thanks. Sauntering away as Arthur rubbed his temples and turned to approach his horse. Greeted by an irreverent smile and deceitful blue eyes.

“Mornin’ Morgan, heard you were lookin’ for a hunting partner.” He said. Grin widening as Arthur menaced him with a blank stare. A certain air of doneness amusing in a way he couldn’t describe.

“No, ‘m fine.” He stated, stepping past the man, who laughed obnoxiously at him.

“Awe don’t be like that, Morgan.” He said, hand reaching out, landing dangerously on the boy’s shoulder. He whipped around quickly, tired and in no mood for Micah’s games.

“You touch me again and you’ll be dustin’ off your ass with yer hat” he warned lowly, warranting nothing but a chuckle and roll of the eyes. Arthur had a big mouth, and it was true that in most cases, his warnings went unheeded, for the fact that he rarely carried them out; however, in times like these, when he didn’t have much of a reason not to, it was dangerous to mess with him. Something Micah had yet to learn, as Arthur shrugged his hand off and continued. Spinning around faster than the man could register, fist colliding with his face just as his hand clapped against the boy’s back. Sent flying backward and down to the ground with a dull thud. Gazing up in both shock and disdain. Stupefied and seemingly taken aback. As if he hadn’t foreseen this outcome. And truth be told he hadn't. He didn’t think Arthur had the sand. 

“You asked for it Morgan.” He growled, standing and rushing the boy who crouched, ready for the man, who rocketed into his abdomen. Knocking him onto the ground where the two rolled around, each trying to gain the upper hand over the other, until Arthur had Micah straddled on the ground. One hand gripping hard to a tuft of his collar as the other pulled back, ready to punch him.

“Arthur!” Dutch exclaimed suddenly. Admittedly amused for a moment, until realizing that the boy might very well have killed Micah. Given he wasn’t exactly yet in his right mind. Standing, towering over the two, fury and disappointment on his face.

“What the hell’re you two doing?” He questioned. Flicking the butt of his near unused cigarette to the side. Arms crossed as Arthur slowly relaxed and stood. Micah scrambling back up onto his elbows. Wiping the blood from his nose as he glared up at the boy. Tempted to spit at him.

“I asked to go hunting with him.” Micah said. Nodding toward Arthur who stood expectantly. Awaiting Dutch’s judgement. Sighing softly as the man raised an eyebrow and looked at him.

“And?” He murmured.

“I said no.” He replied. Plain and simple.

Dutch scoffed, “Well, that’s hardly a reason to kill each other.” He extended his hand and helped Micah to his feet. Brushing his shoulder off as he stood. Dutch glanced back and forth between the two. “Now shake hands.”

“Dutch…” Arthur began, groaning audibly as he was silence by the man’s warningful gaze. 

“If you’re going to act like children. You’ll make up, like children.” He said simply.

Arthur stared at him in disbelief. Sighing obnoxiously loud as he pursed his lips and bit his tongue. Turning to Micah who had a small smirk on his face. Reluctantly holding out his hand, which the man took with vigor. Shaking it, a devilish glint in his eye that made Arthur wary. Sidestepping and crossing his arms. Head tilted as he peered at Dutch and awaited his orders. 

“Alright get going.” He said after a moment. Sizing each one up, making sure no punches would be thrown in his absence. Gesturing toward the hitching posts which Arthur began his advancement toward. Stopped dead when he heard Micah’s footsteps behind him.

“You’re not going.” He growled. Wrinkling his nose as he turned to face the man who mocked an insulted expression. Pantomiming pain as if a great wrong had been done to him.

“I’m part of this gang aren’t I? Is it a sin for a man to want to give back? Huh Morgan?” He defended, fake offence plastered across his features which only intensified Arthur’s scowl.

“I’m goin’ alone.” He muttered. Walking again, though paused when he heard a quiet, “Don’t be like that sweetheart.” Inciting him into action. Swinging back around. Ready again for the fists to fly. Rage boiling in his eyes as he stomped toward the man. “Why you little…” He began, met by a cocky smirk. Stopped by Dutch who then called out in exasperation.

“For God sakes, Arthur, take ‘im with you.”

The boy paused, flicking his gaze to the man incredulously. As if questioning the audacity of such an order. Sighing loudly again, before groaning and turning around. Making no move to stop the man who followed him. Mounting Boadicea who could almost sense his anger. Whinnying loudly at Baylock; Micah's horse. 

Arthur led in monotone belligerence. Silent and refusing to engage in conversation with the man who rode beside him. Cocky remarks urging him to shoot Micah in the mouth, though he refrained. If only for Dutch’s sake. 

It wasn’t long before they’d made it down the hill. Though Arthur was already considering turning back and sticking it to Dutch, based merely on the annoying tone of Micah’s voice. One that made him grind his teeth in frustration. Refusing to explain what he was doing as he picked up some tracks. A jack rabbit most likely. Hopefully a fat one. Dismounting and crouching low to the ground as he crept slowly through the underbrush. Micah close on his tail. Gun in hand. Idiot. Guns scared all the game for miles. Charles had taught him that.

“Hold up.” He murmured, watching for movement up ahead, catching a pair of ears which twitched. A plump rabbit leaping from a bush out into the open. He moved slowly. Drawing an arrow and aiming with a steady arm. Exhaling softly as he let loose. A brief whistle ensued and then soft squeak. He’d gotten it in the heart. Cursing, given that he normally shot them through the eye socket. Blaming his misfortune on Micah who congratulated him sarcastically. Both rising to their feet to collect it. 

“Why’re we hunting rabbits again? We’d have to kill about a dozen to feed all those mouths back home.” The man questioned. Tilting his head and eyeing Arthur who glanced up at him, before shaking his head. Holding the animal by its ears as he retrieved his arrow and walked it back to his horse. Fastening the corpse to his saddle.

“Why don’t we go hunt some deer?” He suggested, “Some big, fat ones. Bet they’re real tasty this time o’ year.”

Arthur shook his head again, cleaning the blood off his arrow, before sliding it back into the quiver on his back, “Because, this is indian territory. We hunt the small game. Leave the big ‘uns to the tribes.” he explained. Met by a scoff and eye roll.

“Indians? Who cares about the indians? Southerners don’t. Shit, yankees probably don’t either.” He said. Poisonous words not lost on Arthur who knew what he was trying to do. Get him to break the rules. Though, it wasn’t exactly a rule. Not by Dutch’s standards anyway. That one had been implemented by their half-indian compatriot.

“Charles cares.” Arthur spat. Turning to face the man, a stern look on his face. One of absoluteness, and perhaps a sense of antiquated morality and righteousness. One responded to by a patronizing stare.

“Charles, ain’t here.” Micah replied, throwing his gun over his shoulder as he turned around. Walking out into the forest, “I’m going to go get a deer.” he said. Smiling wickedly as Arthur hesitantly followed him. These hunting trips usually took hours. On account of their particular prey. A deer certainly would make things go by faster. And he wasn’t necessarily in the mood to be doing anything but sleeping off his hangover.

“Fine. But if Charles gets upset, I’m blaming you.” He murmured. 

Micah laughed and glanced at him, throwing his arm around Arthur’s shoulders. Jostling him lightly and walking with an authoritative strut. Grip on Arthur transitioning into more of a headlock than a friendly embrace.  

“Wouldn’t have it any other way, sweetheart.” He told him. Smiling as the boy growled and yanked himself free.

“Stop callin’ me that.” He grumbled. Holding tight to the bow in his hands. Willing himself not to lay the man out and teach him a lesson. One he doubted anyone else would ever teach him. Not so long as he was in the gang. They protected their own. Even if their own was a malevolent kreten.

“Up ahead.” Micah said suddenly. Hand resting on Arthur’s shoulder. Halting him and pushing him down into a squat as they both crouched. Gazing into a clearing where about four deer stood roaming. Arthur moved to retrieve an arrow, though was halted by Micah, who held out his hand and shook his head. Shouldering his rifle and peering down the sights. Several moments passed. Painfully slow moments of silence in which Arthur glanced at the man multiple times. Wondering why he hadn’t yet fired. Shifting his feet as his knees quickly grew tired of their perch. Snapping a twig beneath his heel in the process. Instantly, the deer looked up, heads flicking in all different directions until they’d begun to bound gracefully away.

“Damnit.” Micah cursed. Loud retort from his rifle blasting through the air. Sending a flock of birds squawking and flying absently into the sky. A body clapped to the ground and the man smiled, standing and running out toward the animal, which lay wounded. Legs kicking instinctively, though too weak to move. He’d shot it straight through the hip. Slowing as he heard the animal crying in pain. Arthur followed. Watching as Micah laid his weapon on the ground. Dragging his knife from his hip in one swift, deliberate movement.

“When you get’em like this...Morgan, you listening?” He questioned.

“Yeah…” Was the quiet response. Mesmerized as he watched the man stroke the deer’s neck soothingly. Deceivingly gentle and slow.

“When you get’em like this, you gotta get’em calm. Nice ‘n calm. That way they don’t move much, when you stab ‘em.”

Quick and violent, he drug his arm up into the sky, thrusting down hard into the animal’s chest. Watching it kick and struggle again for a moment or two before it fell still. 

“You gotta stab ‘em in the lungs, Morgan. Best way to kill ‘em.” he added, glancing at Arthur with a wicked smile and dauntingly exuberant eyes. Licking his lips excitedly as he turned back to the beast. Wrapping his arms around its bodice, though stopped dead as he heard a faint rattling. Frozen still for several moments until he’d hesitantly turned to face Arthur, who stood several metres away. A rattlesnake laying prone at his feet.

“Guess it wasn’t you who spooked ‘em.” Micah murmured. Reaching down for his rifle slowly as Arthur sneered and glanced at him. Still and skeptical as Micah aimed down his sights.

“C’mon towards me.” He said. Sliding a round into the chamber, loading and preparing to fire. Hissing at Arthur who’d begun to face him.

“Back up, Morgan.” He spat. Voice rough and demanding. Breathing slow and calculated breaths as he aimed at Arthur’s boot, where on the other side, the snake lay. Watching as it shuffled slowly from view, revealing the reptile which displayed its fangs menacingly at the boy. Arthur swallowed. Attempting to remain calm as it unwound itself and slithered subtly closer too him. Tail shaking, that awful sound filling his ears. Stumbling back as the creature lunged at him. Shot out of the air; furthermore, blown to pieces by Micah’s rifle. 

Arthur peered at the man with wide eyes. A subtle pant creeping into his chest. Heart pounding. He wasn’t scared of much. Didn’t find himself quaking in his boots to the bereavement of anything. Though snakes, boy did he hate snakes. 

“Thanks.” He murmured. Met by a tempered scoff as Micah rose to his feet.

“You’re an idiot.” He stated. Throwing the gun across his back. Bending down to pick up the deer carcass. Grunting as he lifted it up onto his shoulder.

“What?” Arthur questioned. Watching as the man walked past him. Whistling for his horse, urging Arthur to do the same. Bewildered and lost for words as Micah fastened the animal to the back of his saddle. Leaning against Baylock as he looked Arthur dead in the eyes.

“Don’t you know better than to turn your back on a snake?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello. It is I, the author. I'm not sure what to put here, but I guess let me know if you like the story. And if you don't, tell me why. I'd appreciate it. Just don't be rude. Or be rude, I'm not the boss of you. Also, if anyone is better at writing summaries than I am, suggestions would be nice. Other than that, it's been fun. Thanks for reading. Hope you enjoyed.


	3. Don't Take Your Guns to Town

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "A man with outward courage, dares to die. A man with inward courage, dares to live."

The return back to camp wasn’t exactly a glorious one. 

Though greeted with a ‘hello’ from Pearson and a nod from Kieran, no one moved a muscle to express their excitement. They’d been eating rabbit for so long, a few feared that perhaps they’d forgotten what deer even tasted like. However each were too occupied with their mundane tasks and neuralgia to be bothered to care. As the sun rose, a deft heat had quickly spilled over the valley. Leaving a hot and humid mist to diffuse throughout camp; prompting both Arthur and Micah to fan their faces with their hats. Laid back in the quiet shade of the pine trees which shielded the camp from potential prying eyes. Both entirely fed up with one another, though terribly bored and unable to do anything other tolerate each others company.

“Snakes Morgan? Of all things? You’re scared of  _ snakes _ ?” Micah exclaimed, purposely loud so that any passerbys would hear. Successful in that Ms. Grimshaw peered over at the pair for a moment as she passed; though his words warranted no reaction, as he had hoped they would. Despite being young and in a word, not as seasoned as the others, Arthur had a reputation as a sort of tough guy. One that had an insurmountable consignment of grit. It almost surprised Micah, to find the boy was afraid of anything. Assuming he was high on the reckless abandon of youth, and unfazed by even the most formidable of enemies. Discovering this fear of his, though ultimately useless, was amusing in that now he could mock him with it for the rest of his life.

“Shut up, Micah.” Arthur replied, slouched in his seat. Ankles and arms crossed. Head bowed, hat low on his head. Squinting through one eye at the man who was sprawled out lazily across the grass. Long, stocky build flattening the greenery on which he rested. Dark, dirty, shoulder-length blonde hair soaked with sweat; stamped messily across his forehead and stuck in clumps to his neck. Arthur was not afraid of snakes. He just had a rather eccentric hate for them. However he knew Micah likely didn’t care to know the difference. It seemed as though the man had made it both his obligation and unbridled joy to constantly mock and degrade Arthur. Regardless of the method. 

“I mean, you kill men, and rob banks...for a _living_. And of all the abundant things, that could possibly kill you, from day to day. _Snakes_ , are what you’re scared of?” He antagonized. Fueling the unparalleled grief Arthur was on the brink of unleashing upon him. Even if Dutch reprimanded him immediately after, Arthur was near prepared for the kamikaze mission of beating Micah to death, if only to settle their squabbling once and for all. 

“Shut up Micah.” He growled. Jaw clenched, fingers curling into fists. Crossing his arms and hugging them tight over his chest. As if restraining himself. It was well known that Arthur was a hot-head. It was perhaps, the one wild aspect Dutch and Hosea had yet to break him from. Though they were hesitant for the fact that his severe temper influenced, an almost juggernaut-like tendency which proved to be more of a value than a liability. Either way, Micah loved to get the rise out of him. If only to act as the victim, which, of course, was his favourite role to play.

“Y’know I’ve got some snakeskin boots, cowboy, I’ll try to remember not to wear them. Don’t want you shitting your pants or nothin’” He said. Dragging his arms up and resting them behind his head. Smiling at the steam he could practically feel radiating off of Arthur, who pursed his lips and growled deeply. Glancing at the man with a disdainful sneer. Micah smiled mockingly at him. Daring him to retaliate. 

Given that no one was really paying attention to them, if Arthur _ were  _ to attack, it would appear as though he’d started it. And of course, he’d be unable to defend himself, given that the only way in which he could, was to explain that Micah was mocking him over his fear of snakes. Something, he would never admit. Thus, Micah couldn’t lose. That arrogant glaze in his eyes and patronizing expression causing Arthur to very nearly lash out. Though he knew the games Micah played. He was a hubristic fox. Constantly tricking and cornering his prey, which though it varied, was nearly always Arthur. He had a knack for pushing buttons. And he was especially good at pushing Arthur’s.

“You best shut up.” He snarled. Nose wrinkling, lip curling into a contemptuous and dangerous expression. Brows furrowed disdainfully as a red tint began to blur his vision. Adrenaline pumping through his veins, further stimulating his anger. Focusing it, honing his attention on likely the weakest point of the man’s body. As soon as he rushed him, Micah would likely attempt to stand. Scramble away and plead innocence, in which case he’d straddle him and smash his face in. Though something about his smug expression indicated that he likely wouldn’t move at all. Counting on a rescue before Arthur could reach him. Coward.

“Or what, cowpoke? You gonna hiss at me?” He grinned evilly. Watching, eyes widening with delight, as Arthur stood. Chest heaving, shoulders bobbing with each deep inhalation. Fists clenched, Hat pulled down over his face. Hiding the no doubt infuriated expression. One Micah could almost laugh at. Knowing Arthur’d be given a time out by Dutch or one of the others once he attacked. Propping himself up on his elbows in anticipation. Watching, waiting. 

Frowning, as Arthur walked straight past him. Slow and steady as he sauntered over toward the fire. Seating himself by a log across from Molly who was reading out some poetry. Next to her, sat Tilly, and adjacent to all three sat Karen. It had taken absolutely every ounce of strength he had to walk away. Every molecule straining to break him from his will. Though he knew, he couldn’t give Micah the satisfaction.

“How’d the hunt go?” Karen questioned. Poking one of the ashen logs with a stick, causing it to crumbled into the embers. A few sparks flying up in the air, though fell straight back down into the flames dully.

“Jus’ fine.” He replied, rolling his shoulder blades and stretching his back as he rested his forearms on his knees and leaned into the fire, “Got a deer.” He added.

She glanced at him, nodding, though a little puzzled. Arthur usually respected Charles. Not that he didn’t now, but, for most camp members, Arthur had a certain regard. He heeded their moral codes and abided their rules. For instance, he never hassled Kieran for refusing to hold a gun, and he never stepped on dandelions for the fact that Sadie was of the firm belief that it was bad luck. Or of course, not killing deer, for Charles’ sake. He was considerate, and relatively kind in that sense. Striking out on his own accord like this, was unlike him. Causing her to gaze suspiciously at Micah for a moment, before facing him once more.

“Charles ain’t gonna like that.” She said. Poking again at the fire. Elbow rested on her knee, face cradled in her palm as she sighed. No doubt dying of boredom, as the girls often were. Except of course for Molly, who was too refined to be bored, and her recent shadow, Tilly, who rarely left her side. For some unfathomable reason, Tilly had become smitten with the woman and the way she acted. Wishing she could be like her. Rather than Karen or Mary-Beth who took a little more than mild offence.

“Yeah, I know it.” Arthur replied, rubbing the back of his neck. Sighing audibly as he made brief eye contact with the woman. “Micah shot it.” He added defensively. Worn down by the arched brow and questioning gaze of the woman which prompted him to say, “Yeah, I prob’ly shoulda stopped him.”

Karen shrugged, reaching back for another log to toss onto the fire. Grunting with effort as she did before turning to Arthur who removed his hat and laid it down beside him. Fingers carding through damp hair. Loosening the handkerchief around his neck. 

“Hey, don’t matter ta me. I ain’t complainin’.” She said. 

“Me neither, I like deer.” Tilly exclaimed. Bright smile shining along with dark green eyes. Youthful vigor and excitement in her features as the two looked at her. Each responding with small smirks. Neither realizing anyone had been listening in. Though the moment was short lived, as Molly paused. Pursing her lips and glancing down at Tilly, who shrank a bit.

“Sorry, Ms. O’Shea. Please, go on.” She said. Meek smile obliging the woman who cleared her throat before continuing. Twirling the end of one of her long black braids round her finger, Tilly examined the page as the woman read. Molly glanced up occasionally at either Arthur or Karen as they then sat in silence. Small conversation murmured here and there. Careful as not to disturb Molly who did her utmost to ignore them.

Though only a few years older than Arthur and Karen, she acted as though she were within the same ranks as Ms. Grimshaw. Going so far as to order the girls around, or question Arthur from time to time, as well as the other men. Making sure everyone was contributing. Conveniently leaving no room for anyone to question her, as she did next to nothing on a daily basis. 

Karen couldn’t stand Molly. Nor Tilly lately, for the way she’d been following the woman around like a lost puppy. Due in part by how Mary-Beth, Jenny, and her didn’t really have anything in common with the girl. She’d only just turned sixteen, though acted as if she were thirteen. Wildly oblivious and boring to talk to in conversation, given that she usually went with whatever everyone else was talking about, rather than contributing her own thoughts. She’d grow out of it, eventually, though for now, it was annoying enough for Karen to complain to the other girls about. 

Arthur, though he did spend a reasonable amount of time around the them, was not well acquainted with the inner workings of the girls’ small cliques. Not realizing the rifts he sometimes made when he spoke to Mary-Beth about something; alluding to the fact that maybe he didn’t trust Molly. Or came back from a mission of some kind, and gave Tilly a trinket, rather than Karen. Completely unaware of the battleground he now sat in. Glancing periodically to the three, acknowledging the tension, though doing nothing in reaction to it. Instead, he found himself retrieving his hat and standing to wander around the camp for a bit. Boots dragging on the dirt as he wandered to Pearson’s cart. Taking a drink from the water pale sitting beside it. Wiping the sweat from his forehead as he rested against a nearby tree. Lighting a cigarette and puffing in slowly. 

His eyes wandered across the small plain. Landing here or there, prompting a thought he’d linger on for a moment, before it scurried away into the recesses of his mind. He took quick drags every now and then as he watched the camp’s residents converse. Making up the conversations he couldn’t hear. Like how he imagined Dutch was talking to Ms. Grimshaw about the fancy hat she’d recently started wearing, as Arthur could tell he kept glancing at it hesitantly. However, in actuality, he was asking when Davey would be back up on his feet. Or perhaps Micah who’d found someone else to pester. Flirting, as far as Arthur could tell, with Abigail, though that wasn’t as funny. Straightening out as he watched her give him a menacing glare. One the man simply laughed at. Prompting Arthur to flick his cigarette to the side as he walked out toward them. Glad that for once he had a justifiable reason for punching the man. Though he was cut short. Stopping as Clive, seemingly appeared out of nowhere. Stepping between the two. Peering down at the finger Micah thrust into his chest. Likely mouthing off as he did. 

Arthur paused, a smile of disbelief and anticipation on his face as he watched Clive calmly take Micah’s harassment. Cocksure remarks and obnoxious atmosphere. He watched him, for what seemed like a million years, until the man very slowly lifted his head to face Micah. His demeanor shifted instantly. Realizing that for once he wasn’t talking down on some kid like Arthur, but rather, he was talking to a man. Smile slipping as an apologetic expression began to overcome his features. Though now it was too late. He’d already poked the bear. And unlike most of the other camp members, Clive didn’t give a damn what anyone said. Dutch could have shot him right then and there, and he still wouldn’t have done things any different. Fist flying into Micah’s mouth, knocking him back. Body gone rigid, as he fell like a dead man to the floor. Limp and unmoving as Clive glanced down at him, before stepping over his body and walking toward the hitching post. Once there, intercepted by Dutch who placed a hand on his shoulder. Seemingly conversing, rather civilized. As if he hadn’t seen the man just knock Micah out cold. Or he didn’t care. Something that made Arthur a bit spiteful for the fact that he always got reprimanded for putting Micah in his place.

For several moments he stood still. Eyes fixed on Micah, waiting for him to move. Smiling at the fact that Abigail had gone about her business. As if nothing had happened. He glanced around, wondering if anyone else had seen, and was pleased to know that they had. Catching a number of eyes also staring at the unconscious Micah. Vision then caught by the hand Dutch waved at him. He walked toward him slowly. Breaking into a half-jog until standing before the man. Nodding to Clive beside him with a small grin.

“We’re goin’ into town to fetch Hosea. Care to join?” He questioned, hoisting up a saddle on Silver Dollar; Hosea’s horse.

“Sure.” Arthur replied, aiding the two as they readied the other’s horses. Ennis, for Sean, Taima, for Charles, and Belle, for Creed a newer member to the gang. Though all three were relatively new. Dutch had thought Hosea went crazy when he'd requested them. Arthur had offered in their place, but Hosea knew better than that. Kid didn’t exactly understand the word subtly. His loud mouth, and prominent southern accent would make him stand out. In a way that wasn’t, actually helpful.

Each escorted a horse, though Arthur rode Ennis rather than Boadicea for ease of transport. On the return trip, he’d likely ride with Dutch. 

Bill was left in charge of the camp in Dutch’s absence, much to Micah’s frustration. Though the man was currently incapable of voicing his irritation, for the fact that he was still, very much unconscious.

“Did’ja break his jaw?” Arthur questioned after a considerable amount of time had passed. After they’d been riding long enough for him to ascertain that Clive had calmed down a bit. Met by a pair of dark brown eyes and furrowed brows at the seemingly random inquiry.

“Micah’s jaw.” Arthur specified, keeping his voice low, knowing Dutch would tell him to shut up if he heard. He’d say he was looking for trouble. Talking ill on a camp member. Though it seemed as though it escaped him that, that’s all Micah did. Talk ill, and talk high about things he knew nothing about. 

The man shrugged. Weathered face turning away. Stoic and tranquil as he guided his steed along the path. Glancing once or twice to Arthur who waited a moment before facing Dutch’s back. Shifting in the saddle as he murmured, “Figured if his jaw was broke, he’d quit mouthin’ off for once.”

A sentence that compelled a small smirk onto Clive’s face. One that went unnoticed by Arthur. A long silence ensuing for the remainder of the trip. Clive rather liked Arthur. He was a good kid. For every bad quality, there was a good one. And for him, the good ones far outweighed the bad. He was simple. Easy to please. There was nothing conniving about him. Like Micah, or the girls, or even Dutch at times. Their camp was full of con men and women, thieves, and liars. And true, Arthur was a thief, but he wasn’t a liar. He conned people no doubt, but it wasn’t in his nature. It was an acquired trait, and if this life hadn’t had such a tight grip on him, Clive may have had hope for the boy’s future. However he knew, Arthur, though young, was already too far gone. He was an outlaw. And he had no intention to change. For Clive it had been different. It had been a choice. For Arthur, it had been all he’d ever known. 

When they arrived at the train station, it was empty, apart from the ticket clerk, who watched the men warily as they approached. The train wasn’t due for another half hour, but Dutch figured there was no sense in being late. 

“Arthur why don’t you head into town. I ordered a gun a week or so ago. Go check if it’s in.” He said, Retrieving a cigar which he then lit. Breathing in deeply from it as the boy stood staring at him with a petulant glower that spelled reluctance.

“What?” He inquired, furrowing his brows at Arthur who crossed his arms and sniffed, rotating his nose and pursing his lips.

“Train’s not in for while. Why don’t you? Or are you too busy standin’ there lookin’ majestic? You got legs don'tcha? How bout you use ‘em?” He asked. Feeling something like pride rise up in his chest. 

He’d never really had any cause to question the man. Nor challenge him in any way. And of course, normally if he did, it didn’t matter. Because he’d do whatever Dutch told him regardless. Though he couldn’t help but notice, how as of late, Arthur had become a kind of errand boy. What with all the other ‘men’ making decisions on their own accord. Doing what they wanted to, not what they were told. Something he was rather envious of. 

Despite having been a member of Dutch’s gang since he was about twelve, he hadn’t had much free range. Rather, only a kid meant to abide by his superiors. A spiteful thought that had been intensified over the past few months, given that rats like Micah, didn’t have to run errands at all. 

For a moment Dutch stood silent. Unsure if perhaps his ears had deceived him, or that whatever Arthur had meant to say, came out poorly expressed. Though when no clarification was brought to light, he blinked and rubbed lips lips together. Thinking of the best way he could phrase it.

“Well, Arthur given that you’re such a kind, and generous individual, I figured that perhaps, you’d like to assist, in the way a helpful young gentleman does.” He said, pausing for a moment or two as the boy stared blankly at him, “And because I told you to. Arthur. So please, oblige me. Unless you’ve got any other stupid questions to ask.”

He reached into his pocket slowly and retrieved a slip of paper. Never breaking eye contact with Arthur as he held it out. Breathing in on his cigar, pensive gaze willing the boy to take it. And he did, though not before a brief moment of hesitation. Dutch wasn’t known for his patience. Arthur knew that, and so he let the man’s words roll off his shoulders rather than rile him up. Submitting to the authority the man presented as he glanced down at the paper. A ticket, one which acted as a receipt so that the gunsmith would be able to validate the authenticity of the purchase. Turning and walking along the path into town, which was about a quarter mile down the road. Disinclined and unenthusiastic as he stepped.         

In his absence, Dutch leaned against the small shed by the hitching post; watching the boy as he walked away. Glancing at Clive, who was in the field not far away tending the horses. Making sure they were fed and content until their riders arrived. Once or twice, the man glanced at him, indicating that perhaps he’d overheard their altercation, though if he did, he wasn’t about to say anything. Dutch may have asked him, in another life, what that strange outburst had been about, though he knew better than to ask a father whose children had been slaughtered, for parenting advice. Not because he thought the man was a bad parent, but rather, he figured it might dredge up memories best left to lie. 

By the time Arthur made it into town, he himself was confused as to his challenging of Dutch. Something he had, never done, and for good reason. Hosea may have been easy to walk on at times, a bit too forgiving and lenient where Arthur was concerned, but Dutch had no problem in slapping him if he got too mouthy, which he’d done once or twice. Dutch wasn’t the kind of man to allow himself to be talked down on, or questioned, by a kid. Much less his son, and Arthur had to wonder what he was thinking. Blaming his indecisive nature on Micah, as he was likely, slowly but surely, corrupting the boy. A thought which made Arthur a bit more irritated than he already was.

Maxwell was a small town. A fair bit larger than Valentine had been, though not by much. And despite its amiable population, and number of reputable businesses, Arthur could not stand it. Mostly for the fact, that he’d gotten in a bit of a “dispute” with a man who was considerably drunk upon his arrival for the first time. A “dispute” which had been halted by a deputy who had referred to him as “pretty boy”. A cognomen accepted as though it were his name as a result. 

So, in his best attempt at looking tough, he pulled his hat down low and retrieved some tobacco from his pouch. Slipping it into his cheek, chewing wide and obnoxiously. Wrinkling up his face and peering through a mean squint. One others did their best to avoid making contact with. A tactic which seemed to be working well for him until he’d passed the sheriff’s office. 

“Hey pretty boy, don’tchu be startin’ any trouble!” one of the deputies called, leaning over the railing with a taunting smile as Arthur turned to him. Just about everyone was getting on his nerves today weren’t they? He sneered at the man, who was jostled and encouraged by the other deputy beside him.

Arthur could have easily shot them both. And the sheriff, if he wanted to. He had six bullets in each gun, so he quite possibly, could have killed twelve lawmen, had they been present. Though chose not to, for the fact that Dutch might not like it. Taking comfort in knowing he could, however, as he continued on. Stepping into a small shack which was cluttered with rifles and weapons of every kind. Greeted by an old white-haired man with small glasses, whom he identified immediately as the gunsmith. 

“Friend of mine bought a gun here.” He said, laying the ticket down, “Wanted ta see if it’s come in yet.”

The man peered down at it. Adjusting his spectacles as he did. Nodding as a warm smile spread over his face, “Mr. Macintosh, yes, I remember him. Charming man. He said an associate may be picking it up. Are you Mr. Callaghan?” He questioned.

Arthur gave a half-hearted grin, “The one and only.”

He took the paper with a hum of affirmation, nodding to the boy as he said, “Just a moment.” and vanished into the back room. Arthur leaned against the counter. Crossing his ankles and chewing absentmindedly on his lip. Left waiting for a number of minutes until the man re-emerged, only this time, brandishing a fully customized Carcano rifle, complete with a wide grain stock, wrap, and long scope. Obviously, it was intended for more than just hunting big game. Though Arthur couldn’t fathom why Dutch, or any member of the gang would need such a weapon. Pocketing the ammo the man gave him as he stared at the gun a bit lackluster for something like awe. Tossing it over his shoulder and thanking the man as he stepped outside. Met instantly by the deputy who’d provoked him earlier. A pair of questioning eyes glazing over the weapon he carried. As if suspicious to its purpose.

“Whatcha doin’ with a weapon like that?” He questioned. Stroking the pathetic excuse for a beard on his face. Patchy and thin as it was. Exaggerated brow arching upward dramatically. Almost sarcastic as Arthur sighed and stepped past him. 

“Hey, I’m talkin’ to you.” He said. Following after him. 

Arthur didn’t know much about this town, though what he did know, was that the mayor had several nephews. Nephews which he had deemed deputies upon his first day in office. Meaning they were cocky, and pushy, and all-around power abusing trouble makers. A conglomeration of things Arthur didn’t find very appealing. Doing his best to ignore the man, who was, if he could tell, not much older than he was. Even if obviously, he was doing his utmost, to appear seasoned and mature. 

“I’m talkin’ to you.” He said again. Tapping Arthur’s shoulder roughly enough to nearly throw him off balance. Though Arthur simply glanced at him briefly before muttering, “I know.”

“Then answer me. Wha’d’re you doin’ with a weapon like that?”

Arthur continued. Unfazed as he walked along the road. Ignoring the people who, as they passed, stopped to watch the altercation. The growing numbers of eyes further stimulating the Deputy’s need to appear more of a man than he was. Sticking his nose up in the air, posture straightening out, as he acknowledged the attention they receive.

“‘S free country. Reckon I can do whatever I want with it.” Arthur replied simply. Turning to glare into the man’s eyes, if only to non-verbally tell him he wasn’t about to be intimidated by a degenerate fool dressed up like an officer. Footfalls coming to a slow as he turned back toward the road. Two more deputies standing, arms crossed before him. Several yards away. Brothers of the first, if their incestuous resemblance spoke any truth. Arthur growled lowly. He had nothing against killing lawmen. Nothing at all, and he could feel his fingers itching. Hand gravitating to his gun belt, though he fought the instinct, and urge to shoot each one through the face. Merely for the principle of bothering him, if not, their high and mighty attitudes. A bullet to the head might knock them down to Earth. Or hell more like, but that wasn’t up to him.

“Free country my ass, pretty boy.” The deputy spat. Turning to face Arthur, who stood in silence. “That’s a nice gun.” The man added, “Why don’tcha hand it over? Huh pretty boy?”

He smiled gleefully, glancing at the other two who grinned, as if they had Arthur cornered. As if there was nothing he could do in retaliation to their harassment. As if he didn’t have any guns on him. Or the fighting experience to whoop them into the dirt.

“No.” Arthur replied, spitting a hunk of tobacco onto the dried soil below, “No, I don’t think I will.”

“Think so?” The man questioned, a wild look in his eyes now. Like that of a toddler when you take away their toy. Angry, and petulantly prideful. As if he’d never been refused anything in his life. Reaching out and placing his hand on the barrel of the gun. Attempting to yank it off, though before he could, Arthur drew his knife, faster than anyone could blink. Holding the blade against the man’s throat, causing him to freeze. Doe eyes going wide. The others reached for their guns, though were told to stand down by the shaking deputy in front of Arthur. Frozen stiff as blazing blue eyes burned into his own.

“Y’know, Deputy, with all due respect; you got your whole life, to be a spineless, yellow-bellied, bitch. So, why don’t you take the day off.” He growled. Death in his eyes more terrifying than his words, which caused the man to hesitantly nod. Retracting his hand from the gun, holding both arms up to the sides in surrender. 

“You got some nerve kid.” a voice said suddenly. 

Arthur flicked his gaze to an older man, who stood on the porch beside him. The sheriff. Though, he didn’t exactly appear angry. More or less impressed. A small smile tugging at his lips as Arthur slowly lowered his weapon. Turning to face the man, opening his mouth to respond. Pausing when he saw the man step forward, eyes widening a bit. Ultimately too late as the deputy smashed his gun against the back of Arthur’s head. Knocking him to the ground, where he fell unconscious.


	4. One-Eyed Jack

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I rebel, therefore, I exist."

“There he is.” Dutch said, broad smile stretching across his face as Hosea stepped from the train, followed by his entourage, who spilled out and collected by the horses. Though it had only been a month or so, since he’d left, he appeared to have aged noticeably. Likely from the stress he’d no doubt faced. Though the weary mien would likely wear off once he’d spent an ample amount of time at home.

“Yes, here I am.” He responded tiredly, gesturing to Trelawny who stood nearby the luggage. A coach would be sent out to him soon enough and their belongings would be brought as near to camp as they dared advertise, before being furthermore collected by the others. The man joined them presently, a look of almost guilt on his face.

“I assume things went well.” Dutch observed, shaking the man’s hand, as he offered a small chuckle and scoff.

“Difficult, but well.” Trelawny murmured. Glancing at Hosea who nodded in affirmation. Both quickly going over the case and events which had occurred over the past few weeks. Filling Dutch in on any information he otherwise lacked. Apparently Trelawny’s imprisonment had been less dire than he had implied. When in fact he had only been arrested for public indecency and intoxication. Easy charges to drop, though their trouble had come, when Hosea was recognized by a bounty hunter who they spent the majority of their time avoiding. Making sure the man would no longer be a problem, before returning. All, information Hosea had neglected to mention in his update letter to Dutch a week prior to his arrival. 

“I’ll be glad to be home, anyway.” Hosea murmured as the two stepped away from Trelawny who gravitated toward the others, “Though I suspect there hasn’t been any less drama.”

Dutch chuckled lightly. Puffing from his cigar as he rested on a bench beside the man.

“No. I’m afraid not. As always, everyone’s been at each other’s throats. Afterall, the peacekeeper’s been gone.”

Hosea smiled lightly, knowing he was often the voice of reason in any given debacle the camp members faced. Something that troubled him, for the fact that he was getting older, and he knew he wouldn’t be around forever to settle the abundant arguments that often took place. He’d hoped perhaps John would be a successor of sorts, as the man had always been fairly level headed, but in his absence, Hosea found himself without an inheritor. Something that worried him greatly.

“And Arthur?” He asked, hopeful expression fading as Dutch scoffed.

“Kid nearly killed Micah the other day. Nearly bit my head off today. He’s been gettin’ pretty bold.”

Hosea waved him off, shrugging and shaking his head as the man glanced at him. Waiting for the well of wisdom which would soon come pouring out of his mouth.

“He’s getting older, Dutch. A little rebellion is natural. He can’t be a good little soldier forever. In fact, it’s better this way. At least you’ll know he won’t be a blind follower.”

“True,” Dutch nodded.

“Besides, John went through the same thing.”

“Only difference is, he left, Hosea.” 

“Don’t remind me.”

There was a long pause. One in which Dutch puffed thoughtlessly on his cigar and Hosea pinched the bridge of his nose. It wasn’t often that the men talked about John. Though they thought about him constantly, and perhaps their downfalls as parental figures, he wasn’t a topic anyone liked to discuss. Especially in light of how little they really knew him. No one expected him to leave. No one expected him to abandon Abigail. Nor his son. The mere fact that he had, proving he was no longer the man they knew, if ever he had been at all. A thought which brought them both a deep sense of anguish. True, throughout the years they’d encountered betrayal, and loss, but in the case of John, it had been different. Closer to home. More shocking. More painful. Before it was anyone else, it had been Dutch, Hosea, Arthur, and John. And then one day, it wasn’t. And no matter how long it had been, one fact remained the same. People change. And there’s just about nothing you can do, to stop it.

“Speaking of Arthur…” Hosea began, glancing over each shoulder, making a quick scan of his surroundings, “Where is he?”

Dutch lifted his head. For a moment, brought back to reality. Taking a second or two to process Hosea’s words, before furrowing his brows and looking around. Sean, Charles, Trelawny, Creed, and Clive stood by the horses. Arthur, was nowhere in sight.

“I sent him into town a while ago. Asked him to pick up a gun.” He murmured. A bit confused, though by no means suspicious. Figuring the boy was still spiteful for some reason, and was lounging about at the saloon, or shooting at the range. Purposely dragging out his return time, if only to irritate the man. Something John had done a number of times during his rebellious years. Inciting arguments whenever he was retrieved or told to come home. He assumed, Arthur would do the same. Something in him wanting to teach the boy a lesson of some kind. Wanting to leave him. Make him walk back to camp. Remind him of his place. Though something on Hosea’s face stopped him.

“You didn’t send him into Maxwell did you?” He questioned. An almost stern, ‘I can’t believe you could be this stupid’ expression melting across his features. 

Dutch cocked his head back. Raising an eyebrow as he murmured, “Yeah, so?”

Hosea shook his head and sighed, “He got in a fight in Maxwell a month or so ago. He was detained, for disturbing the peace, and it was by the grace of God that I was able to persuade the Sheriff to let him go with a warning. The one condition being that he not return.” He threw his arms up in exasperation and stood. Walking out toward Silver Dollar as Dutch followed. Whistling for the Count.

“Why didn’t you tell me that?” The man inquired, mounting his horse. Following Hosea along the road.

“It didn’t seem prevalent.” Hosea grumbled. Calling out to the others, telling them to head back. Waving to Trelawny as they both rode side by side.

“In what way?” Dutch asked incredulously. Tossing his Cigar into the grass beside them.

Hosea shrugged and waved him off. “ I don’t know.” He murmured. Sighing as the two made brief eye contact. Wondering what they were getting themselves into. 

 

*

 

“You up yet dumbass?” A voice questioned. Loud, and seemingly right next to his ear, though as he opened his eyes, he found the room to be empty. Raising his head as he gazed down past his feet, finding a concrete wall there, beside him, and above the bed on which he rested. To his right however, was a set of bars. He was in a cell, he realized, though the door was wide open. Something he pondered for a moment as he laid his head back down. Deep sigh escaping him as a silence ensued.

“Would you believe this is the second jail cell I’ve been in this week.” Arthur murmured. Slowly reaching up to pinch the bridge of his nose and rub his eyes. Ankles crossed as he rested both hands over his stomach. Relaxing into the bed as he heard the jingle of spurs gradually enclosing. An older man stepped into the fray. His hair was black, though greying. Long and slicked back. He had a handlebar mustache and long sideburns that almost joined it. He had silver eyes. Kind eyes. Grandfatherly. Something Arthur thought was a bit odd, given his stature. Usually sheriffs were mean and old, and didn’t have time to care about anything but upholding the law. Something Arthur had always hated about them. Though to his credit, the patch over his left eye added to his tough appearance. He was tan, obviously he sunbathed quite a bit. Arthur couldn’t fathom him doing  _ work _ of any kind. Given no one in this wretched town did anything apart from stand around and look pretty. He was tall, though not strikingly so. He had a lenient gait, likely from an ankle injury. In his right hand he held a hat. Thumbing the brim with his left, as he leaned against the door frame down the hall. Diagonal from Arthur’s feet.

“Yes. I believe I would.” He said with a small smile. Rotating his jaw as he chewed on the tobacco in his cheek. Placing his hat back over his head. Spitting to the side as he crossed his arms and nodded toward Arthur.

“What’s your name kid?” He questioned. Narrowing his eyes a bit as he watched the boy grin. Small chuckled emanating from him before he said, “Arthur Callaghan.” in response. 

“Wha’s so funny?” The man inquired, angling a bit closer. Small steps bringing him to the cell door through which he peered down at the boy, who gestured around vaguely. 

“This.” He stated simply. 

Imprisonment is what he meant. Given that he was one of the most wanted men in the country, it was rather ironic that he was casually conversing with a sheriff, who had no idea who he was. The bounty on his head had to be at least three thousand dollars by now. Enough for anyone in their right mind to want to kill him. Or turn him in. And yet here he sat. 

He glanced down at himself. Seeing that his guns had been taken, though that didn’t bother him. If he were in trouble of some kind, the cell would be closed. That or the sheriff was a very confident man. Though, he didn’t understand why he wasn’t cuffed and locked up. If for nothing other than disturbing the peace. Let alone threatening an officer. It’s not like there weren’t any witnesses either. He could easily swing. And upon his numerous sins, by which he was wanted, he should have. Yet, this man, hadn’t the faintest inclinations as to who he was. He had no idea just who he was giving a free pass.

“Delirium.” He murmured. Snapping Arthur’s attention to him as the boy swung his feet off the bed and pushed himself up along the mattress. Sitting up, only to be greeted by a pounding headache. Hand reaching up instantly to cup the back of his head. Gently touching the tender, torn skin. Eyes crossing slightly at the pulsing pain.

“I suspect you may be feeling the after effects of Junior’s gun. He knocked you pretty hard with it.” He added. Vanishing for a moment before returning with a bottle of opium, which he then offered Arthur, who respectfully declined. Staggering to his feet, only to fall back down a moment later. The sheriff shrugged. Leaning against the door again as he watched the boy struggle to collect himself.

“Managed to get the bleeding to stop. Though, I ain’t no kinda doctor, so I wasn’t able to do much. Best keep an eye on it.” He said. Tilting his head as he retrieved a cigarette. Offering one to Arthur who took it. Accepting the flame the man then provided, inhaling deeply. Thinking on the Sheriff’s words. Slowly recollecting his interaction with those three deputies. And what had come after. A blackness that engulfed him. A passage of unknown time slipping him by. Peering up at the officer as he then asked, “How long was I out?”

“Bout, half an hour. Maybe more.” He too puffed on his cigarette. Gesturing to Arthur with it, “You got some sand kid. Stickin’ up to Junior like that. Kid’s an entitled prick, if you ask me. Mama still tucks him in at night. Daddy runs the town. Not many got the guts to stick up to him. Though I’d estimate, being that you’re new, you didn’t know who he was. In which case, it wasn’t all that impressive. More or less stupid. So, enlighten me, Stranger, you a badass, or a dumbass?” He paused, “Or both.”

Arthur grinned lightly, glancing at the man as he rubbed the back of his head, “I knew who he was. Trouble is, he didn’t know who I was.”

The Sheriff nodded, a look of intrigue on his face. Raising his brows and tilting his head.

“And who are you stranger?”

Arthur smiled. Taking a puff as he laid back down over the mattress. Arm rested behind his head.

“No one.” He replied. 

An ambiguously ominous air filling the room that made the Sheriff shift from foot to foot. Not because he was intimidated, but because something about this kid seemed rotten. Genuinely bad. Even if, the majority of him seemed fine. Average. There was an undertone of darkness to that mediocrity which made him suspicious.

It was then, that he heard the front door open. Turning away from Arthur who didn’t move. Walking down the hall and into the office, where two men stood. One with black hair and a reluctant expression, the other with a face of worriment and grey hair. 

“What can I do for you gentlemen?” He questioned. Putting his cigarette out in the tray on his desk. Fingers resting in the loopholes of his pants. Head tilted at the men, who he couldn’t say he’d seen before. Likely friend’s of Arthur’s. Or enemies, for all he knew. 

“We’re looking for the Sheriff.” The grey haired man said. Tone soft and even. As if apologetic or apprehensive. Rubbing his hands together nervously as the man eyed his accomplice. A rather, deceivingly charismatic looking individual. A liar, he could tell. 

“Well, you found him.” He said, “Sheriff Samuel Wykeham, at your service.”

The grey haired man furrowed his brows, lips parting, then shutting a few times before he collected himself and asked, “What happened to Sheriff Woodley?”

“Got shot. Apache Junction. Terrible tragedy.” He replied. 

There was a small silence, once in which both men’s moods and mannerisms improved considerably. The grey haired man rolled his shoulders back and nodded in agreeance; the indecisive glower on his face softening into a neutral expression.

“Well, Sheriff, uh- pardon me. The name’s Melvin Dobell. This here is my associate, Hoagy Macintosh.” The other tipped his hat politely, “And, well, we’ve come in search of a friend of ours.”

“My son.” The other added. Wykeham glanced at him. Sizing him up again as he crossed his arms and gazed suspiciously at the two. Knowing, obviously who they were referring to. Though unsure if he had any grounds on which to trust them.

“Got an Arthur in custody.” He told them, taking note of their expressions, which lightened, “but I ain’t got no Macintosh.”

The man who supposedly went by, “Hoagy” nodded as if he understood the confusion, look of serene enjoyment on his face, as he said quite loudly, “He’d a bastard. Doesn’t bare the name.”

Wykham nodded, narrowing his eyes and glancing between the two before sighing and shrugging, “‘Fraid I can’t help you gents. Kids’ due in court soon. Won’t be seein’ nobody.”

The two peered at one another. Each stiff and seemingly dissatisfied with the man’s answer. Hoagy stepped forward, a rather dashing smile on his face, accompanied by a charming atmosphere. A smooth-talker, Wykeham could tell. Silver tongue. Something that made him even more suspicious of the boy. For if he knew them, he ran with a questionable crowd. 

“Got company Sheriff?” Arthur said suddenly, groggily stepping from the hall into the room. Leaning against the door with one arm, a bit dizzy as he nodded to the men.

“Hoagy. Melvin.” He murmured. 

Wykham glanced at him, pausing for a moment, “You know these men?”

Arthur nodded, “Unfortunately.” 

He wandered toward them. Shaking hands with Melvin who smiled at him. Each exchanging a few words, as Hoagy stared at Wykeham with a knowing expression, “Due in court, huh?” He questioned. 

The Sheriff shrugged, wandering around his desk as he reached into one of the drawers, “Didn’t know if y'all were tellin’ the truth. Wouldn’t be a very good sheriff, if I let just anybody walk away with a suspect.” He tossed Arthur’s guns onto the table top. Examining his knife briefly, before laying it down too. Gesturing to the gun locker beside the men as he said, “Rifle’s in there.”

Arthur retrieved it and slung it over his shoulder. Holstering his weapons and giving the man a dashing smile as he sheathed his blade. Wishing that perhaps he’d beat that Deputy into the dirt. Giving the man a show instead. Though he figured he’d have been formally detained for that.

“Junior’s not gonna like it when he gets wind of you gettin’ off.” The man warned, “Best keep an eye out. Boy doesn’t know when to quit.”

Arthur nodded, thanking the man briefly before turning to face ‘Hoagy’ and ‘Melvin’ who stood expectantly at the door. Following them out as they approached their horses. Waiting until they’d both mounted, before stepping up onto the Count with Dutch, who rode without a word. Silently guilty for the fact that he’d nearly left the boy in jail. Though figured it couldn’t have been that bad. Given that he was free to roam about. More or less questioning what Wykeham had meant about whoever “Junior” was. Though for now, he was more focused on getting back to camp. Knowing better than to leave it without proper leadership for long. 

“Are you alright Arthur?” Hosea questioned after a while. Eyeing the boy who sat slumped tiredly against Dutch’s back. Furrowing his brows at the blood dripping down the back of his neck. Unsure if it was fresh, or dried. Glancing at Dutch who raised his eyebrows at the man, wondering what was wrong with the boy. Attempting to peer over his shoulder at him, though only able to make out a head of hair.

“‘M...fine.” Arthur murmured. Though his gradual weakening and limpness did him no favours in convincing the two who rode harder. 

Hosea cut ahead, when they’d gotten close enough. Pushing Silver up the hill, and calling out to Ms. Grimshaw, to get the medical supplies ready. Instantly, everyone crowded around.  Wondering why, and who, had been injured. Waiting excitedly and in anticipation as Dutch rode right into the center of the camp. Dismounting, and carrying Arthur, who was barely conscious, toward the tent. Met by a number of furrowed brows and concerned eyes. Unsure as to, what had occured that could have left Arthur in this state. After-all the men had only gone, to retrieve Hosea. None could fathom what  had possibly transpired between then and now, which injured Arthur, though didn’t leave anyone frantic, or angry in any way. Mysterious, and even more so intriguing, as they all stood on tip toes peering in. 

Davey propped himself up. Peering over at Arthur, as Dutch laid him down on the bed beside him. Stepping back as Ms. Grimshaw entered. Followed by Creed, who was once a doctor. Though was not trusted with performing any medical procedures for the fact that his hands had terrible tremors. However, only when he encountered stress. The kind of stress associated with practicing medicine. He was still deadly with a gun, no doubt. And when he held his cattleman revolver, his hand didn’t move an inch.

“Head trauma.” He murmured, gingerly lifting Arthur up, and turning him onto his side, as the two examined the wound. Though his words were hardly audible in light of the boisterous speculation being conversed beyond the tent. A few members standing in the opening of the flaps. Trying to get a look at Arthur and his presupposed wound.

“Is he going to be ok?” Dutch questioned. Voice low, face deathly pale. Eyes wide and focused on his boy. His son. Shallow breathing making it appear as though he weren’t even breathing at all.

“Should be.” Creed replied, thought Dutch couldn’t hear him over the rampant noise. Rage, and violent trepidation flickering in his irises as he turned to those peering in.

“Get out.” He growled. Glaring at the few who hushed, though didn’t move. 

“GET OUT!” He shouted. Startling the women and even a few men as they all began backing away. Scattering and going about their business. Skeptical and confused.

He turned back slowly to Creed, listening as the man repeated himself. Gazing down at Arthur for several moments more. Excusing himself thereafter, and wandered back to his tent. Glancing periodically, through the flaps at Arthur. Worried for him, though doing his best to hide his concern, which he hadn’t done a very good job at. Reading, as was his only solace, in troubling times. Joined momentarily by Hosea, who wrote in his journal, beside the man. Also occasionally tempted to peer over at the medical tent; for the same reason as Dutch. 

The fear of a loss they knew all too well.

 


	5. Angel and the Badman

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "A thorn defends the rose, harming only those that would steal its blossom"

He rarely went to church these days. Partly, because he didn’t have the time. Given his affiliations and constant movement with the gang, though in all honesty, it was mostly for the fear of his own guilt. Afraid that it would eat him alive if ever he was forced to stand subject to it. Afraid that the ghosts of his past would materialize if only to haunt him. To stare at him, wide eyed and faceless. Reminding him of the monster he'd become. Terrified that he’d burst into flames the second he set foot on the grounds. 

Though that Sunday was different. It was a special Sunday. The kind he couldn’t ignore, or pretend had passed by, unbeknownst to him. It was her birthday. And even if he’d never had that strong of a faith, he knew he had to go; for her. Otherwise, she might chew his ear off for the rest of his life. Her voice a phantom, a ghost, lingering in his mind. Constantly berating him, telling him, reminding him, of his obligations to her. His vows and the broken promises he’d do anything to repair. He held tight to his hat. Wringing it in his lap as he listened to the preacher’s sermon. Listened to the choir’s hymns. Eyes fixed to the ceiling, as if an apparition would come to him. As if God would give him a direction of some kind. Or purpose. Hoping an angel would be sent to comfort him. 

Or kill him.

His mind wandered. Far away and distracted. Glancing absentmindedly to the vacant pew beside him time and time again, unable to understand why it was empty. Unable to conceive it, nor face the memories screaming at him from the back of his mind. Pleading ignorance as he wondered. Where was she? Her soft smile and blue eyes. Long blonde hair, like strands of gold. The flower print dress she once wore. The one her mother had given her as a wedding present, even if she’d always disapproved of him. The one she always said she’d never be able to fit in again after the girls were born. Though she did. And she loved that dress. She wore it every Sunday. Proud and dangerously enchanting in that gingham dress. A sight to behold. Fair and utterly divine.

It had been a Sunday. 

That day. 

When the bad men came.

Once, twice, he looked at the seat beside him. Seeing her; face smiling, eyes shining. Blindingly beautiful. An angel on Earth. An Angel put there just for him. Perfect if every way; flawless. 

Then turning away, as the blood came dripping from her head. Oozing out of her mouth. Trickling down and down and covering that dress. Drenching her as he cast his gaze to the floor. Biting his tongue, leg bouncing nervously. Wringing that hat harder, and harder.

Sweat began pouring down from his forehead. Beads forming and dripping across his face. Pooling in the cavity of his collar bones. Eyes wide at that ceiling. Wishing something would come down from it. God, an angel. A support beam. Breathing soft and hesitant breaths as he ignored the gentle hand on his thigh. The small, delicate hand he'd know even if he didn't have any nerves with which to feel it with. 

She was trying to get his attention. His angel. But he couldn’t look. He couldn’t bare to see those great big holes in her head where those loving blue eyes once rested. Her scorched skin; flesh peeling back off her face like the pages of a burning book. 

He’d rather carve out his own eyes, than look. 

To see what he had been unable to prevent.

Wringing his hat. 

Knuckles turning white.

At last, the service ended, and the Pastor sent the ushers to collect the offerings. Each pacing the pews with a plate. Rich folk, and poor alike placing bills and bits onto them. 

He retrieved two dollars from his pocket. Glancing with blurred, tear filled eyes at the empty pew beside him. Before...before everything, he’d have given the girls a dollar each. Both ever excited to drop it onto the plate. A feeling of maturity and helpfulness influencing the biggest smiles he’d ever saw. Smiles that would linger until they’d ridden home. And they’d play in the field. Helping with the baby. Pure and happy, and beyond perfect. Far more than he deserved. His beautiful angel, and his girls, and his one and only son. Each worth more to him than all the gold in the world. His own personal heaven. Or at least the closest he’d ever get. 

It killed him to drop those two dollars in. 

Each bill falling limp from a shaking hand.

The girls would be proud.

 

*

 

“If you had to, is what I’m sayin’”

“I know, what you's sayin’. And I’m sayin’, I dunno.”

“C’mon. Think about it. If you had to kill one person in camp, like, you really had to. No choice. Who’d it be?”

“Sayin’ the question again don’t make it any easier to answer.”

Arthur opened his eyes slowly. Recognizing Mac who sat in a chair beside Davey who still laid in his bed, “recovering”. Boy drug out an injury longer than anyone Arthur had ever met. 

Mac's feet sat crossed at the ankles; propped up on Davey’s mattress. In his hands, he held a fan of cards. Four or five, which he rearranged periodically. Arthur glanced at his brother, who he saw also with a deck of his own. Wondering what game they could possibly be playing with only two people.

“I dunno, I guess...uh...Bill?” Davey said. Tossing a card down. Peering up at his brother for a moment as his shifted on the bed. Tongue rolling around his mouth as waited for Mac to play.

“Why Bill?” He questioned. Intrigue spelled across his features as he lowered his cards and furrowed his brows. Staring at Davey who shrugged doppily.

“I dunno. I guess ‘cause he don’t seem as tough as he acts….but don’t you go tellin’ him I said so.” He replied. Glancing suspiciously at the tent-flap as if Bill Williamson himself would step through and beat him to death. Shrugging his shoulders, as if spooked, and sitting up against the pillow behind him. Mac laughed. Though it was less of a laugh, and more of a high-pitched giggle.

“Yeah, can’t be too tough with a birth name like Marion.” He said.

Both chuckled, nudging one another as if that joke had been original. And the first time they’d ever heard it. 

Bill was usually reserved. Didn’t ever go telling people his first name. In fact he very avidly avoided it. Though, occasionally, when he was drunk, he’d go on long shpiels about his father, and how he'd been an alcoholic. An asshole with no redeeming qualities. Constantly blaming him for his turning to crime. Reciting conversations they once had. Once or twice slipping up and saying ‘Marion’, instead of ‘Bill’ when quoting his father. Though no one ever said anything about it. Not unless they wanted to get beat.

Of course, however, when Micah found out, nearly all hell broke loose. Frequently writing taunting letters addressed to “Marion”, which he would deliver to Bill’s tent when no one was looking. Letters which would send Bill into a blind range. Leading him to barrel into the center of camp. Unable to communicate his rage as he’d babble like an ape. Face red, curses flying from his lips. Unparalleled fury.

And though entertaining, Micah’s harassments didn’t last long. Even if Bill was a brute with limited knowledge, he knew sooner or later the man would figure it out. And once he did, Micah had no doubt that Bill would shoot him. Or worse.

“Who’s turn is it?” Mac questioned after a minute or two. Peering down at his cards, then up at Davey who shrugged and mumbled, “I dunno.”

Mac shook his head and shifted in his seat, “If you say ‘I dunno’ one more time, I’ll shoot you in your other shoulder.” he muttered. Kicking Davey’s side which caused the man to sit up and glare at him. Childish offence in his eyes as he spit on the ground. Arms crossed as he rested back against the pillow. Glancing absently to Arthur who they both then realized was awake.

“Mornin’ Arthur.” They said in unison. As if they shared a brain. And for a brief moment Arthur had to wonder if perhaps they did. Due to a genetic anomaly of  some kind. Freaks of nature or the like. A concept he was well versed on, for how often Mary-Beth spoke of them. Reading and writing constantly about strange folk with even stranger afflictions. Though Arthur figured the only thing, with which the Callander boys were afflicted, was stupidity. 

“Mornin’” He replied groggily. Stretching as the two glanced nervously at each other. Wondering if he’d overheard them. Though, that’s not to say they had any reason to worry. Arthur didn’t often go yapping about things people said. That was more Micah’s domain. And perhaps Uncle who would at times rat on camp members, if only to suck up to Dutch. Hoping the man wouldn’t banish him from the gang, as he did relatively nothing. Except beg for money.

“You ain’t gonna tell Bill what we said...a-are you Arthur?” Mac asked anxiously. Laying the cards in his hands down on Davey’s bed. Both staring surreptitiously at him as he shrugged and yawned loudly.

“Depends.” He said.

“On what?” Davey inquired. Leaning toward Arthur who gave him a sideways glance.

“How fast one a’ you can get me some coffee.” He replied. Confident smirk on his face as the brothers exchanged apprehensive gazes. Unsure as to whether or not he was serious. Though, neither were willing to take the chance. Davey kicked suddenly at Mac, nearly knocking him out of his chair in the process.

“Wha’d ya do that for?” He barked, offended.

“Go get him some coffee!” Davey demanded.

Mac crossed his arms and stuck his nose in the air, “Why don’t you, loud mouth. You’re the one who said it.” He growled.

“Cause I’s injured, you dumbass, now go!”

Mac rose to his feet reluctantly. Arms dropping limply to his side as he sighed obnoxiously and shuffled out of the tent. Shoulders hunched, posture slouching in an attempt to make his task seem as laborious as possible. Vanishing from sight for several minutes as Arthur gathered himself and sat up. Feeling at the gauze wrapped around his head. Blinking a number of times at the sun beam peeking through the small opening in the flaps. One both prominent and distracting. It was still early, he could tell, but with that light peering in on him, he wasn’t confident he’d be able to get back to sleep. Settling with the idea of getting up soon as Mac returned, tin cup in hand. Holding out the dark brown liquid for Arthur, who took it. Gazing down at the steam which rose up against his face. Hot, and comforting in the cold morning air. 

“Anything else you want Arthur?” Davey questioned, then elbowed roughly by Mac who muttered, “Why you gotta ask him that? You know I’m gone haveta get it.”

Each glaring at one another until Arthur cleared his throat and said, “‘m fine.” causing both to relax. Picking up their cards again and playing. Silent curses muttered every now and then as they delt. Arthur sipped hesitantly from the cup. Licking his lip each time the hot liquid burned them. Furrowing his brows at the two brothers, and the game he could not understand. Shaking his head in confusion and wonderment as he gazed through the tent flaps. Catching glimpses of camp members here and there as they walked past. Greeted soon enough by Creed who stepped inside after recognizing that he was awake.

“You feelin’ alright Arthur?” He questioned. Standing a foot or so away. Glancing briefly to Davey and Mac who nodded at him. Though both were very much focused at the task at hand.

“Tired’s all.” The boy replied. Met by a curt not as the man held out his hand, gesturing toward him.

“May I?”

Arthur nodded, putting down his drink as he bowed his head. Allowing the man to slip his fingers between the bandages and Arthur’s skull. Examining the wound for a moment or two, before releasing him and standing passively with his hands in his pockets. Glancing at the Callander boys again for a moment, perplexed. Arthur gave him a knowing half-smile as the man redirected his attention to him.

“Looks better. You should be fine. There’ll be a scar though. Shouldn’t be too big.”

Arthur nodded and Creed gave him a brief smile before exiting. Going about his business as usual. 

Creed was a shorter man. Not, strikingly so, but he did lack a couple inches in height, where most other men were blessed. He had an average face. The kind you wouldn’t suspect of any malice. Regular features. Indistinguishable, in a large crowd of men who had the same generic brown hair and eyes. Which at this point was a large portion of the population. His mediocrity had its perks. When scoping out a bank, or the security around a score, most people didn’t pay him any mind. Nor bother to remember him. He wore plain clothes too. Similar to that of a farm hand. None of the flashy garments a gunslinger might wear, nor the telltale signs of an outlaw. Though in that regard, his looks were entirely deceiving. 

The man was older, rounding off on his forties, though that time did nothing to encumber his abilities. He was fast, well, faster than you’d expect. Smart, in many different aspects, medical and otherwise. Skilled with just about anything designed or used to inflict damage, though particularly deadly with a shotgun. Capable of performing incredible feats with the weapon, which had earned him the title of  “Buckshot Bandit.” A name he’d committed to in the prime of his youth. Using his medical practitioning as a cover up, and disguise. It wasn’t until, a rather traumatic event, which he wouldn’t discuss occured, that he was sent on the run. Eventually meeting up with Dutch who was rather impressed with the man. Influencing him to join the gang thereafter. 

Arthur pondered briefly. Recollecting the brief history he was given on the man. Smiling in spite of himself as he recognized a correlation. Between Creed, and Clive, and Abigail, and John. Bill, Javier, Pearson, Kieran, Lenny, Sadie, all of them, including even Arthur himself.

Dutch had a habit of collecting the broken.

 

*

 

Dutch and Trelawny had been talking all morning. Tucked away at the far table in the corner of camp. Far from any eyes or ears who might question or listen in on their conversation. Something that made Hosea anxious, for the fact that he knew that usually implied they were plotting something. And whatever that something was, was something he wanted no part of. 

Turmoil as an outlaw was a given, though Hosea couldn’t condone how Dutch seemed to court it. Chasing after it as if it fulfilled a desire of some kind. And normally, he didn’t mind being dragged along; however, the recent business with that bounty hunter had left him shaken. What they’d neglected to mention to Dutch, as much for Trelawny as it had been for Hosea, was that, that bounty hunter had been under the employ of Colm O’Driscoll. Having attacked them whilst the two were drunk and unprepared. Something Dutch likely wouldn’t have believed even if he were told. Given how rarely and conservatively Hosea drank. 

Given his age, and general wisdom, Hosea wasn’t normally one to sweep problems under the rug. Assuming they were done with, having the experience to know they almost never were. Though in his guilt and recent forgetfulness, he allowed the event to continually slip from his mind. Unable, however, to suppress the anxiety he still felt regardless. Nervous as he approached the men. Hesitating when he heard the words, “Coach” and “Robbery” being thrown around. Surely, he could convince them to postpone these plans. Given their recent take from the train heist. An amount he still was unsure of, given his fresh arrival. 

As much as Dutch hassled him for a lack of communication, the man himself most often withheld an abundance of information which was typically far more valuable. So, if only to stall, he found himself wandering toward Herr Strauss, who sat cross legged under his tent. Reading, as far as he could tell. Slow advancement laboured by fatigue.

“Morning Herr Strauss.” He said with a smile. One which was returned to him. As well as a brief greeting in the man’s native language. Folding his book, one finger resting in the page, lest he lose his spot. Looking up expectantly at the man who glanced over his shoulder at Dutch and rubbed his temples.

“I was, uh, I was wondering if I could go over the ledger.” He murmured. Pursing his lips as Strauss nodded accordingly and twisted his torso to face the neat stack of books beside him. Pulling one from it after scanning their spines. A red, hardcover, which was not unlike the various other books used to track camp affairs. Anytime anyone left, they were meant to write in a green one. Jotting down the chores they’d completed in another, which was blue. Though only a few residents took them seriously.

“Thank you.” Hosea told him. Meandering to the nearest seat in which he sat. Opening the book and flipping slowly through the pages until he’d reached the most recent documentation. He knew, vaguely of the complications that had ensued their pursuit of the train, though was surprised that the take had been five thousand dollars regardless. Wondering what on Earth could possess Dutch to think they needed to be pulling any kind of job now. When they were meant to be lying low. No more than one heist every two weeks had been the deal. Though, Dutch had never been accused of modesty. Nor a lack of greed. He was an outlaw, after-all. Through and through. He was never satisfied. Constantly basking in the exhilaration of near misses, and narrowly avoided defeat. Despite his age, he had a young man’s heart. Something Hosea knew would get him in trouble. One of these days.

He sighed deeply. Knowing his words would likely be futile. Though he rose to meet Dutch anyway. Noting how the two men paused as he approached. Obviously, whatever they were plotting, was something they knew Hosea would oppose. As made evident especially by Dutch’s exhausted expression. As if preparing to be lectured. 

“Good morning.” He said, sitting across from Trelawny, who gave him a wide, and counterfeit smile. One that meant he was hiding something. That, or he was sitting on information which would benefit the Van der Lindes greatly. Such information, being something he normally withheld, on the unfathomable grounds of cynicism. For all his fancy talk, and alluring behaviors, Trelawny was not a popular man. He did not make friends easily, and even if the three of them had been working together for years, he long awaited the day in which they would eventually turn on him. Absorbing his information, then casting him aside. A fate Hosea had assured him, on multiple occasions,  would never occur. Nonetheless, it was a common practice to get Trelawny drunk, like he’d done when they were upstate, or butter him up in order to loosen his lips.

It was like a dance of sorts. Or at least, that’s what Dutch always said. He had a way of glorifying flaws, and making them sound elegant. He always claimed to believe that the mind was like an orchestra. Each thought, specific to a type of instrument. Each action linked to the will of the conductor. And of course, each word was a collection of feet. Tapping and hoping across the floor in a dignified prance. Like a waltz, of sorts. Every movement, a deliberate and intentional cue. Describing it in a way that made it seem as though talking, or rather conversing, was some kind of sophisticated exertion. One that took skill and grace. Hosea figured that’s how he was so good at it. Perhaps exalting speech was the key to perfecting it. The key to honing a silver tongue. 

Hosea had never been any good at that.

Glancing to either of them.

Unbothered as he cut in on their waltzing.

“How’s Arthur?” Dutch questioned immediately. A red herring meant to distract him from the question on the tip of his own tongue.

“I haven’t seen him yet.” He replied, peering back over his shoulder at the tent. Watching as Creed stepped inside. Facing the two who sat quietly. An almost laughable concept. The two loudest mouths in camp, silenced merely by his presence.

“Maybe you should check on him.” Dutch tried again. Leaning back in his seat, arms crossed. As if attempting to intimidate Hosea who stared at him blankly. Wondering if perhaps Dutch had forgotten who he was talking to. Any of these others fools followed his every whim. Listening to his every word. Abiding his every rule. They were young. Naive. Trusting. Hosea and him were like brothers, and for a moment there was a realization in Dutch’s eyes. One that caused him to relax in his chair. A soft scoff escaping him at the failure of his usual tactics.

“I’m not in the mood for Games, Dutch. I’m tired. I don’t care what you’re doing, because you’ll likely do it with, or without me. I just want to know what it is. I don’t like being in the dark.” He said bluntly. Concise and to the point. Something the both of them could appreciate. Respectful glaze in their eyes as they glanced to one another. Each leaning over the table.

And the waltzing continued.

 

*

 

Karen wasn’t affectionate. Due to a lack of love, both by her mother and absent father, she grew to be cold, and unfeeling. Quick to anger and not easily persuaded. A bit like Sadie, though not nearly as intense. Nor ruthless. She was, in her own way, a siren of sorts. Young and beautiful. Curvacious and enticing to the young men she often lured into relationships. Whether they were brief or long, they were never real. Never genuine. There was always something for her to gain. Knowledge, power, money. Dating, or screwing, or subjecting herself to a relationship of any kind, was a means to an end in her mind. A necessary evil. She far prefered sealing herself off. Lingering in the silence of her own lonely respite. She was kind, no doubt. Empathetic at times. Perhaps even compassionate. Though if ever she was, it was through the guise of sarcasm or mockery. She had never let anyone see her heart. And she was confident she never would. Afraid of what someone might see, if they were to look.

But with Sean, it was different. 

True he was young, and brash, and talked faster sometimes than she could keep up with, but he was kind. Kinder than she possibly could have hoped for, being surrounded by outlaws. He was content with her, just as she was. Unconcerned with the walls she had built up. Seemingly untroubled with the time it would take to break them down. Something she’d never thought possible. He may not have been the most handsome man. Nor the most brilliant. Though such aspects were dull in comparison to how he made her feel. Not exactly love, per say, but he made her feel something. More than infatuation. More than a crush, and the modest rush of affection which accompanied that prospect. He was exciting. He was perfect. And she was afraid of admitting she cared about him, because she knew if she allowed herself to care, eventually that veil of perfection would fall. And she would find a flaw. One that would crush her. 

And she wasn’t about to be crushed by some petty little thing like love. 

“I missed you, Karen.” He said, leaning against the tree with one hand. The other rested on his hip. Crooked smile gleaming at her. Accompanied by greenish-grey eyes. Such an alluring colour. One she almost got lost in for a moment. Composing herself before flashing him a dull smile of acknowledgement.

“Oh, don’t go breakin’ me heart. Tell me you missed me too, darlin’. I know you did.” He antagonized playfully. Leaning toward her, as she eyed him with a dangerously suspicious gaze. Raising her eyebrows at him in a silent attempt at warding him off. As if her ears were tunnels, and his words merely got lost in them, rather than finding any kind of meaning in her head.

“Don’t make me beg, Love.” He pleaded, smile widening as he dropped to his knees. Hands clasping together as if he were about to pray. Gazing up at Karen who couldn’t help the small smirk curling up on her lips. Arms crossed, expectant expression patronizing him as he wrinkled his brows together innocently.

“No greater beauty, there ever was. Like the moon, she was mysterious. Ever changing. Lighting up the dark crevices of the night like the lantern of my life. What perfection!” He began, dramatic and loud as he proclaimed his undying love. Something Karen found both flattering and foolish. Waving him off and urging him to stand as she glanced around briefly. Making sure no one was in earshot as she muttered, “I ain’t interested in poetry, Sean Maguire.”

He smiled deviously, waggling his brows as she rolled her eyes and took his hand. Leading him onward to her tent as he trailed behind. Skipping along excitedly. Tossing his hat into the grass as he laughed.

 

*

 

Arthur had wandered to his tent. Nodding to whoever passed him, at first wary of the stares he received. Then recognizing what they were looking at. Hesitantly reaching up to thumb at the gauze. Pursing his lips and shaking his head in dissatisfaction. He didn’t like being “wounded”. Even if the attention was nice, especially where Mary-Beth was concerned, it bothered him. It wasn’t often he got hurt, but it was rather annoying when, as per usual, either Hosea or Dutch acted like he was made of glass for a week or so proceeding his injury. Refusing to allow him join heists or contribute to camp in any way that was particularly strenuous. He briefly remembered one time, when he was about seventeen or so, and he’d been stabbed in the leg. A minor wound. One which didn’t inhibit his ability to walk very drastically. Nor did it burden his arms in any way. So, naturally, he figured he ought to chop some wood. Given it was winter, and the other men were out doing more laborious work. Though the second he picked up an ax, Dutch had materialized, out of seemingly thin air, to tell him to rest. Taking the tool hesitantly, as if he were a child wielding a deadly weapon he didn’t know how to control. Something that irritated him greatly, for how John had mocked him after. 

He got dressed quickly. Hoping to get out of camp before anyone could stop him. Sick at the thought of being confined to this small space, surrounded by people who’d either antagonize, or pity him. Neither, being desirable prospects. Leading him to click his gun belt around his waist and stalk quickly out toward Boadicea. Attempting to appear inconspicuous as he tiptoed along the edge of camp. It was early. Still early enough for most residents to be asleep, though one could never be too careful. 

He didn’t make it far. Though to his credit, he was discovered by happenstance. Hosea, who’d finished his discussion with Dutch was making his way toward Silver Dollar in order to retrieve the map he’d kept in his saddle bag. Intercepting Arthur who gave him a nervous smile. Greeted by a look of both relief and surprise as Hosea stood before him.

“I was just about to check on you.” He stated, pausing and reconsidering his words, “Well, after Dutch, Trelawny, and I finished planning.”

It was Arthur’s turn to be surprised. Cocking his head back and furrowing his brows. Hosea was normally the plan reviser, never a planner himself. He believed it was undignified to do both. Like when Mary-Beth made Karen read her short stories for correcting. Even if Karen wasn’t as literate. It’s decidedly easier for new eyes to catch flaws. At least that’s always how Hosea justified it. Though Arthur figured it was more or less the fact that Hosea didn’t think as big as Dutch. 

“You? Plannin'?” Arthur inquired. Fingers resting between the buckle of his gun belt as his jeans. Head tilted as he watched the man nod modestly.

“Yes I suppose it is a bit strange. Though, I figured, if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em. I’m not stupid enough to believe Dutch won’t be Dutch just because I tell him not to.”

Arthur snorted, laughing lightly at that fact. A revelation he was surprised Hosea hadn’t come upon much earlier. Years, perhaps even decades prior, when at first he’d met the man. Dutch, though he could occasionally be swayed, was largely single minded. He was very confident, in that he believed whatever he thought was right, was in fact, right. And almost nothing could convince him otherwise. The only people capable of getting under his skin, and at times, changing his mind, were Arthur and Hosea. Though less so Hosea these days, for the fact that Dutch justified ignoring him with the man’s old age. A bit of an offensive and antiquated argument, but an effective one. 

“Ain’t that the truth.” Arthur added, crossing his arms and shaking his head lightly. Peering at Hosea, who for a moment seemed to have lost his train of thought. Staring blankly at Arthur, seemingly confused for a second or two, before collecting himself and saying, “I’m glad I ran into you. We could use your help.” 

Arthur furrowed his brows and pursed his lips. A bit more surprised and even more so perplexed. Dutch or Hosea letting him do anything after such a recent injury was practically unheard of. Though he had no doubt one of them would likely change their minds at the last minute. However, in spite of himself, he walked after the man, who gestured for him to follow. Fetching the map before returning to the table at which Trelawny and Dutch sat. Each glancing at Arthur hesitantly before continuing their discussion. Planning the route which they would take. Discussing who would be doing what. Though, it seemed fairly trivial and simple. And it soon became clear to Arthur why he would be playing a part. 

Nothing like keeping someone out of harm's way, by putting them in harm's way. 


	6. No Name on The Bullet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If life were predictable, it would cease to be life, and be flavorless

Arthur was without a doubt the best shot in camp. Regardless of the gun, and or circumstances surrounding any given target, he’d hit it. Many times over, if necessary. He’d fired and successfully struck his targets in rain, shine, wind, snow, hot, cold. Any conditions given, were conditions he could work with. He could clip the wings off a fly with a cattleman. He could singe a man’s eyebrows off with a rifle. He could blast apart a crane flying faster than most men can follow, with a shotgun. He was fast, and freakishly good at shooting. With no reasonable explanation apart from God-given talent. It was impossible, how good he was. It was entirely unfathomable. Unbelievable by just about anyone who hadn’t seen him at work with their own two eyes. And Arthur wasn’t one to boast. He didn’t normally make a spectacle of himself, nor draw attention to his unique ability. However. Considering he was participating in a mission, which consisted of two jobs. Two, and only two, he was a bit spiteful, for the fact that the assignment of protection, and gun wielding, was given to Josiah. Josiah, who was quite literally the least experienced gunmen in all of the United States. Including boys up to the age of about ten. 

Arthur’s job, of course, was to stop the coach in one way or another. The initial plan, being that he stumble out from the woods, claiming he’d been attacked by bandits, or something of the like. An attempt at spooking the men, who Trelawny would then shoot. If, he was even capable. Dutch had instructed Arthur leave his guns behind, in order to seem more believable, though Arthur wasn’t about to put his life into the hands of an inexperienced shooter, simply because Dutch told him to. Something he’d likely argue with the man about later. Grinding his teeth as he floundered out onto the road. Coach trotting to a halt as he waved his arms frantically. Attempting to appear scared as he began rambling about his father, who’d been shot by a bandit whilst they were on their way to town. 

Collapsing for dramatic effect, which caused one of the men to jump down, eyes laden with concern. Something that always made Arthur feel a tinge of guilt. Watching through a half closed eye as the man turned only too late, as his partner was shot by Trelawny, who’d narrowly managed to shoot through his ear and into his head. Taking far too long to aim at the other man, and so Arthur shot him. Sighing deeply as he rose to his feet. Dusting off the dirt which clung to his shirt as they dragged the bodies into the bushes framing the path. Stripping them and changing into the men’s clothing. Miraculously fitting well enough to be believed, as they abandoned the corpses and made their way down the road. Trelawny drove. Of course. Given that Arthur’s injury impaired his ability to do anything, other than sit and look tough.

“Good job, Arthur. Very convincing. We might make an actor out of you yet.” The man chimed. Smiling widely at the boy who sighed and scoffed. Glancing at him before saying, “I ain’t no actor.” under his breath. Response met by a tempered chuckle.

“Your mentors are both some of the finest con-men from here to New York. If you haven’t picked up on at least some of their abilities, your time had been wasted I’m afraid.” He joked. Nudging Arthur playfully, though he received nothing but a scowl.

Trelawny didn’t usually participate in these,  _ escapades _ . Only watched from the sidelines or at times directed them. And, of course, whenever he did, he was typically avoided or left to fend for himself; given that he was a notoriously horrible partner. He was known to freeze at the first sign of conflict. Either running or locking up and unable to move. Something that had gotten Arthur shot once before. Though, it had been a graze, more than a through and through wound. Nonetheless, Arthur was still a bit bitter about it, given that Josiah had never formally apologized. Rather, brushing it off and refusing to talk about it. As if that would make it go away. 

At first, the plan had been for Dutch to go, though he figured his obligation to running the camp was a bit more critical. 

Of the level headed men, Charles had been out hunting, Clive had been in town, Creed had been changing Davey’s bandages again, Javier had been out on recon, and as far as Dutch was concerned, no one else fit the bill required to pull off this particular heist. A rather, normal looking, charming, convincing individual with a certain discrete quality was preferred. Someone who wouldn’t be questioned upon arrival.

Arthur, though young and perhaps a bit mean looking, fit the bill in the case of the shotgun passenger. A lookout for bandits. As such, it was normal for him to be, a bit odd. Not noticeably, but rather, subtly. 

The concept was simple. One refined gentleman, one...less so. One coach, one plan, and a whole, lot, of gold.

“We’re coming up on it now. Let me do the talking.” Josiah murmured, glancing at Arthur who pulled his hat down a bit further in an attempt at hiding the bandages wrapped around his head. Collar flipped up and tucked against his neck. Rifle in hand. Inhaling deeply as Trelawny began to whistle cheerfully. A wide smile spreading across his face, as an obnoxiously upbeat ambiance surrounded him. His mannerisms a bit too enthusiastic in comparison to Arthur’s lackadaisical squint and scowl. 

As they approached, a crowd of men began to cluster around the end of the road. Miners, if their uniforms spoke any truth; though they didn’t appear to be working. All collected outside before Trelawny and Arthur had even begun their trek down the road toward them. A fact which made Arthur a bit suspicious, though Josiah didn’t seem bothered in the least.

“Greetings gentleman!” He said. Boisterous attitude hardly palatable. Met by a collection of blank stares and harsh glowers. Though they did nothing to dampen his attempt at ardent finesse, in the slightest. Walking straight up to who appeared to be the leader. A man who stood tall. Looking tough. Arms crossed, nose in the air. As if he were looking down on Josiah for one reason or another. Something Arthur found a bit odd, though he didn’t question it. 

“Quiet sort, aren’t we.” Trelawny said, after several uncomfortable minutes of silence. Clearing his throat and rubbing his palms together as he traced the men. Each doing their best to appear intimidating. Strong-arming the two, Arthur could tell. Unfazed, though he could see Josiah slowly losing his nerve. Typical.

They had done a number of jobs likes this. All across the country. Rather than stealing a coach after it’s left the gold mine it’s collected from, which was decidedly much more dangerous, they had begun stealing the coach before, it’s arrived at the mine. Then collecting the gold themselves, and riding off into the sunset with it. It was easier this way, and it was much less likely to go sour. The grunts of these efforts, being the miners, were usually complacent. Trusting and a bit naive. A factor, it seemed they’d been relying on too heavily. 

“Well.” Josiah began, clearing his throat again, “If you lot have prepared the gold, we’ll load it up and-”

“There ain’t no gold.” The leader said. Voice cold and raspy. Deep and utterly horrifying to Trelawny, who took a small step back.

“Oh?” He murmured, glancing around at the men who formed a half circle around the coach. Each with a rather determined expression. This was more than intimidation, they were attempting to get something. Persuade the two. Though Arthur couldn't fathom what for.

“Mr. Renaud ain’t payin’ us fair!” one of the men shouted suddenly, as if having read Arthur’s mind. The others nodded in agreeance.

“He’s got ‘nough gold to pay us all, yet the wages keep on droppin’" Another cried. Encouraged by his fellow workers who all clustered closer together. These men were honest, Arthur could tell. Good, honest men, who were in a tough situation. Striking against a man who was likely too rich to care. Though he could also sense, given their group tactics, that they were cowards. The second a gun fired, they’d all back down. Though, even if he was tired, and rather itching to fire the rifle in his hands. He didn’t.

“There ain’t gone be no gold, till we get paid.” The leader said. Tone harsh and absolute. 

For a moment, Arthur and Trelawny both stared at him. Eyes glazing across the others who shifted from foot to foot. It was obvious that this was the first attempt they’d made. Each nervous and though tough looking, initially, were shaking in their boots. After all, business men aren’t known for being, exactly, kind. They were expecting to be told ‘no’. Expecting to have to fight, or perhaps prove the depths of their resolve. Arthur pursed his lips. Thinking on the situation. Wondering what Dutch would do. And of course, being the actor he was, with resplendent bravado, Dutch would take the high road. Be, a robinhood, of sorts. So Arthur stepped down. Acknowledging how a number of the men back up a pace or two. Respecting how the leader didn’t. He thumbed the gun in his hands. Making a show of the weapon as he made eye contact with each man brave enough to meet his gaze.

“I’m sure, you men work hard.” He began, lifting his head as he spoke to the lot of them, glancing for a moment to Josiah, who watched him warily, “And I’m sure you got families and such.”

He chambered a round with his lever action rifle loudly. Causing a blaring silence that hushed any murmurs in the crowd and or whispers in the wind. An eerie quiet which drowned out any words the men might have had the courage to say. Each waiting in a dull anticipation for Arthur to continue.

“So.” He said, “I think I will be generous.”

He smiled widely, in the way Dutch normally did, though with his own wild flair. Crazy in his eyes letting them all know he would shoot any one of them without a second thought. Non verbally telling them, to keep their heads down and not make a fuss. Or he likely would.

“You see, me and my associate, are not under the employ of uh, wha’d you call him?”

“Mr. Renaud.” One of them murmured.

“Right, Mr. Renaud…” He paused, “We happen to be outlaws. And whether or not you try to stop us, we’re takin’ that gold. However, in sympathy for your uh...troubles; I’d be willin’ to overlook, lets say, four ounces each.” He began pacing, walking along and in front of the men who gradually flattened out into a line. Staring wide eyed at him as he spoke. Hesitant to acknowledge the gun in his hands.

“So it seems, you have one of two options. Option one; take some gold, tell your boss, some bandits stole it, and we all go about our business. Or, option two. My associate and I, take all the gold, and you all die trying to stop us.”

There was a long silence. One in which everyone stood frozen. Unsure what to do. Frantic and frightened glances were exchanged at speeds Arthur could hardly recognize. Raised brow awaiting an answer. Making eye contact with the leader who was the only man, seemingly to have kept a level head. He was obviously tense, and apprehensive in the face of Arthur’s threat, though he stood unmoved. Staring the boy dead in the eyes as if attempting to read his mind and or ascertain if he could trust him.

“Load ‘em up boys.” He said suddenly. After what seemed like a millennia. All eyes snapping to him. Hesitant, as if perhaps wondering if they’d heard him wrong. Though when he turned to the wooden crates stacked up beside the mining shack, the others followed like lemmings. Each hesitantly taking a small fistful of gold. Watched like a hawk by Arthur, who held his guns at his side. Gesturing for Trelawny to get back up on the coach, as he was practically useless in this scenario. There were ten boxes total. Each containing a number of satchels full of gold dust, or nuggets. A worth that balanced out to about ten thousand dollars, at most. However, that was only if they were able to find a bank willing to trade with them. It was usually Dutch’s charisma that encouraged clerks to overlook the shady collection of likely ill-gotten gold, though every so often they’d run into a righteous do-gooder who’d report them. Or, at least try. In which case they’d have to pack up and move again. Something they hadn’t been forced to do in a record time of four months. 

“You all know the deal now right?” Arthur called. Seating himself beside Josiah who shifted nervously. Hands a bit too tight around the reigns. He wasn’t use to field work. In fact, he hated it. He was more accustomed to smooth talking, and fooling dim witted people. Standing face to face with actual men, who could, if they so wished, kill him, was something he hated almost more than the smug smile Arthur flashed him.

“We know.” The leader told him. Nodding to the two as they tilted their hats and began their journey home. Glancing over their shoulders occasionally. Knowing better than to think things had gone so smoothly. Especially Trelawny who jolted each time the coach reached a bump in the road or an unexpected noise startled him. Something that caused Arthur to smirk smally.

To him, it was simple. This life. It always had been. For all the romantic comparisons Dutch made between the life of an outlaw and the true nature of man, he didn’t find it alluring for the fantasmic complexity of it all. The gun fights, the heists, the killing, stealing, none of it was like a story to him. He didn’t ever think of himself as the protagonist in some larger picture. A forager in the fastidious exploits that comprised civilization. He didn’t see it like Dutch did. To him, he was a simple man, in a simple world. One without the confines of law and order. One with men doing whatever they needed to, to survive. Killing, fighting, stealing. There wasn’t anything elegant about it. No sophisticated semantics. It was life. He’d never wanted anything else. Honest men got eaten alive in this world. They got undercut and stomped on. Lives barely worth a dime. 

It brought Arthur a sense of pride to know his life was worth at least five thousand dollars by now. Even if he couldn’t exactly cash out on that money.

Trelawny was very much the opposite. As was Dutch. They both looked at the lives they lived as something ideological. For Dutch, it was the seductive call from amateurism. The rise from inferiority, into a symbol of anarchy. Into a martyr for human instinct. To rise above the very men who underpinned the average citizen. It was euphoric to him. Glorifying. It made him into something he’d have never been otherwise. It made him into a king. Though not the kind that took everything for himself; leaving his people squandering and hopeless The kind that was loved and praised. The kind that was remembered even when eventually, they fell. 

Trelawny, was more or less a trickster. More talented at fooling men, than killing them. Cunning, and culpable for a number of crimes involving the convictions of the tongue. Though he was also a coward.

As made evident, by his sudden expression of surrender. Hands flying up in submission to the guns pointed at him. High pitched gasp queuing Arthur in to the four men who’d stepped out from the cover of the trees. Standing in a line across the rode. Rifles shouldered and aimed at the two of them. 

He lazily pulled on the reigns. Urging the horses to a reluctant stop. Sighing deeply as he lifted his head to peer at the men who smiled wickedly. Laughs erupting out of the two who stepped forward.

“Is that Arthur Morgan?” One of them crowed, lowering his weapon as he bellowed loud and obnoxiously. Pointing at the boy who narrowed his eyes at the man. Tracing his figure until ascertaining that he was in fact, an O’Driscoll. The lot of them were. Something that caused him to sigh once more. Bowing his head for a moment, before rolling his shoulders back and taking in a deep breath.

“Y’all know you’re standin’ in the middle of the road?” He questioned. Scratching at the scruff on his jaw. Pursing his lips as he awaited a response.

“Oh Arthur, fancy meetin’ you here. Colm thought we’d seen the last o’ you Yankees for a while after that train. Seems fate had somethin’ else in mind.” The man chuckled. 

The others joined in for a moment or two. All inexperienced idiots, from what Arthur could tell. He’d met the one who was talking. Never formally, but he’d seen him a couple times. The others, however were new. Mirroring their leader’s movements and mannerisms. They’d be easy to catch off guard. Even with the guns in their hands, the second a rifle went off, they’d likely sit stunned for a moment. And a moment was all Arthur needed to shoot all of them. Even without the aid of Trelawny, who he glanced at briefly. Slapping his arms down and growling at him as he faced their aggravators.

“As nice as it is to run into you fellers, we’re in a bit of a rush, so if you could all just scoot, that’d be real helpful.” He said, flashing them a brief, insincere smile. One which provoked another round of laughter. Something that was really staring to piss him off. He didn’t care for cocky cretins like the O’Driscolls. Especially when they did it as obnoxiously as these four. Puppets and pawns.

“Yeah, we’ll be scootin’ along soon enough.” The leader leered, chuckling darkly, “But you and your friend there, is comin’ with us. Colm’d like ta have a word with ya. Maybe ol’ Dutch too”

Arthur pursed his lips. Locking eyes with each man through a malicious squint. One which very obviously expressed his distaste for the situation. Tongue grazing his teeth as he rotated his jaw.

“You fellers ought to move on. I ain’t in no mood for this.” He growled. Startling even Trelawny, who shrunk a bit. Glancing nervously back and forth between the men and Arthur who stared one another down for what seemed like years. Sweaty hands holding tight to guns. Hesitant gazes unsure of what to do. Arthur was well known amongst the O’Driscolls. For what he meant to Dutch, and Hosea. And for his prowess in battle of any kind. He was a bit of a legend, and he was counting on his status to intimidate the newer members, who stared wide eyed at the gun on his belt. Knowing that very weapon had been used to kill a dozen or more O’Driscolls.

“Arthur Morgan, you may have these fools scared shitless,” The leader began, “But I know a bluff when I hear it, boy. You’re outnumbered. Outgunned. That friend o’ yours ain’t gonna be much help. You so much as twitch a muscle and you’ll be deader than a goddamn door-nail. You may be fast, kid, but you ain’t fast enough.”

There was a long silence, one in which Arthur very slowly reached into his pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarette. Sliding one out and placing it between his lips. Striking a match against the roof of the coach. Holding it up and lighting the tip. Taking a long drag. Smoke rolling out into the air through slightly parted lips. Dark glower raising up to meet the leader, who stood still with an obnoxious smile.

“Maybe.” He said, tone steady; void of any hesitation or even the slightest glimpse of weakness, “But if we have a shootout, _ boy _ , know, you’ll be the first one dead.”

Another silence ensued. One in which the leader stood, dauntless and cocksure as ever. As if Arthur’s words hadn’t even fazed him. Something he could only infer as meaning, either he was crazy, or had the upper hand in a way Arthur had yet to identify. Mind racing as he subtly scanned the tree line. There had to be more than four men. Colm wasn’t known for subtlety. He’d send a dozen men to steal single a horse, if only to make his presence known in the most uproarious way possible. And as well known as he was, he wasn’t as infamous as Dutch Van der Linde, which brought him a quite a bit of grief. Always attempting to one up the man. In all the wrong ways, if you were to ask Arthur. But then again, nobody really cares what he thinks.

“You keep talkin’ Morgan. Maybe it’ll get you somewhere.” He taunted. For a brief moment glancing up behind Arthur who very slowly came to recognize the shifting of weight at the back of the coach. Reaching down for his gun, preparing to be flanked, when a gunshot suddenly rung out through the air. Startling everyone who for a moment stood still. All frozen and unsure of what to do. All except Arthur who didn’t miss his opportunity to fire upon each man. As promised, first shooting the leader right between the eyes. Savoring his dumbfounded face. His final expression, before he fell to the dirt. Quickly fanning his revolver, gunning down the rest who were too slow to react.

Once all of them were dead, he spun around, raising to his feet as he aimed at the corpse atop the coach. Sprawled out, a gunshot wound straight through his head, pistol in hand. Confused and hesitant as he scanned the woods again. Expecting more O’Driscolls to jump out at any minute, but none did. Instead, an intense, adrenaline filled silence ensued. One which brought him slowly back into his seat. Glancing at Trelawny who sat awestruck. Eyes wide. Mouth gaping. Shaking ever so slightly. All effects Arthur had no doubt would take several minutes to wear off. Each quiet and still as they collected themselves.

Arthur was first to recover. Not at all frightened or scarred by the turn of events, but rather perplexed. Unsure as to who had fired up on the O’Driscoll behind him. God knew Trelawny was a coward, and a pacifist. Therefore, it was impossible that it could have been him. Then again, the soft glaze over his eyes, and terrified hands clutched tightly to the rifle in his hand could have said otherwise. After all, Arthur had been too focused to pay attention to him. Glancing every couple seconds at the man as they rode on. Disposing of the body first, before returning back to camp. 

Unloading the coach greedily; were Sean, Bill, and Javier. Each exchanging satisfied grins. Entirely untroubled by Arthur and Trelawny who stepped down and wandered toward Dutch’s tent. Though, halfway there, Josiah cut off to the side and sulked into his own abode. Pale and entirely petrified. Near floating, as his feet hardly touched the ground. Like a ghost.

“What on Earth did you do to him?” Dutch questioned. Lighthearted tone meant as a joke. One which was not received as well as intended. Elated expression quickly nullifying into one of monotone belligerence. Following Arthur who stepped past him without saying a word. Concerned at the conflicted features which then turned to meet him.

“What happened?” He asked suddenly. Knowing that look on Arthur’s face could only mean one thing. Something had gone wrong. Though not entirely wrong enough for the coach to be stolen, which he was glad about. As much as for the money, as for Arthur’s safety. If either of them had been maimed in the process of retrieving the gold, it was made clear that they’d both return, without it, if need be. 

“O’Driscolls.” Arthur growled lowly, shaking his head and crossing his arms, “Came outta nowhere. Five or so of ‘em. May have been more, and they’d just run off, I dunno.”

He peered at Trelawny’s tent. Puzzling and puzzling the situation over and over in his mind. Had he seen Trelawny fire his rifle in his periphery, or was that his mind playing tricks on him? If it hadn’t been the man however...who else?

“You run into trouble out there, cowpoke?” Micah said suddenly, rounding the corner from the back of the tent. Leaning against the support beam which held the structure up. Deceptively warm smile on his face. On his best behavior, in the face of Dutch who simply rolled his eyes and nodded a greeting to the man, who Arthur sneered at.

“Said Colm was out here somewhere. Set up camp nearby, or the like.” He then told Dutch, disregarding Micah, who slowly closed the gap between himself and the two. Leaning more toward Dutch who didn’t pay him any mind. Entirely focused on Arthur. Though now angry more than anything. Colm had a habit of popping up in the worst of places. It seemed as though he followed the Van der Linde gang like a bad smell. Constant and annoying, and troublesome beyond a doubt.

“They was talkin’ bout takin’ me and Trelawny. Hold us hostage or somethin’” He continued. Cut off quickly by Micah, who interrupted with, “Why didn’t ya let ‘em.”

Both turned and looked at him. Furrowed brows and features spelling something like bewilderment. Stupefied by his bold statement. Awaiting an explanation for a moment or two before he rolled his eyes and said, “Obviously, he’d have wanted you as bait. He knows as well as anybody what you mean to the gang. You’re like the annoying little brother. Stupid, and brainless, and unreasonable most times, but family nonetheless. They wouldn’t have kill ya. Just tried to lure us in. Let us know exactly where they were. We coulda wiped ‘em out.” 

For a brief moment, his words made sense. And at surface level; it did seem to be a plan of some working order, with perhaps minimal rational if ever put into practice. Though left out a plethora of factors which played a part in that potential scenario. One being that sure, Colm wouldn't kill Arthur. There’d be no fun in it if Dutch couldn’t be there to see. Though, undoubtedly, he’d beat the boy beyond recognition if only to establish his dominance, and hurt the Van der Lindes greatly. Next of course, was that, even with the full force of the gang, vengeance driven or not, they’d be outnumbered ten to one, by the O’Driscolls. It’d be an onslaught and entirely pointless endeavor that would only lead to death. 

“‘Cept, they’d wipe us out bar none if we tried.” Arthur fired back. Crossing his arms as he glared intensely at the man.

“Right. ‘Cause without the great, ‘Arthur Morgan’ we’d all be useless in a gunfight. Believe it or not sweetheart, but you aren’t the only good shot in camp. We’d blast those bastards to pieces.” Micah argued, stepping toward him, as if illustrating his point. Standing tall, as if to make Arthur feel smaller. Stretching those few inches of height in which he surpassed Arthur, as if it made him entirely void of flawed logic.

“Ain’t got nothin’ to do with skill. It’s gotta do with numbers. He’s got over fifty men in his employ. We got what, ten? Less? It’d be suicide.” He barked, raising his voice as Micah stood even closer. Tempting Arthur to shove him away, though he knew only trouble would come of that. Instead, standing his ground as the man continued to argue his point.

“Numbers don’t matter when you got tactics, Morgan. We’d have the element of surprise! We could’ve taken care of those no good sons o’ bitches and been done with ‘em!” He was yelling now, and it had drawn the others in. Attention slowly drifting from the gold, to Dutch, Arthur, and Micah, who all mad dogged each other. Insults thrown like tomahawks between Micah and Arthur, whose voices gradually rose to an unacceptable volume. Luring Hosea from his tent as he attempted to discover what was going on.

“I’m tryin’ my hardest, Micah, to see things from your perspective. But the problem is, I can’t seem to get my head that far up my ass!” Arthur shouted.

“Oh you’re a tough guy, aren’t you Morgan. Always got some witty remark don’tcha? Ever the smart-ass huh? Well one of these days you’re gonna get what’s coming’ to ya. Mark my words I’ll-”

He was cut off abruptly. Shocked and utterly horrified as he was grabbed by the throat and thrown against the side of Pearson’s cart, which sat only a couple feet away. Startled and confused as he stared into volatile eyes. So furious and utterly incandescent that it shook him to his core. Fingers scraping at the hand, whose grip seemed too tight to be real. Forced onto his toes at the inconceivable strength which lifted him.

Dutch had stood for many minutes. Silently reflecting on Micah’s initial claim. Working to wrap his head around the idiocy which he couldn’t hope to fathom. Unraveling the argument in his mind as he attempted to understand where his reasoning had even come from. Was he that stupid? Was he that egocentric? Did he even know Colm O’Driscoll? Did he know what he was capable of? What he had done? For several minutes he stood stunned. Flashbacks of what that monster had done to Annabelle flashing through his mind. Unable to even imagine anything of the like happening to Arthur. His son. His mind was unable to snap back to reality. Frozen and drifting in the silence recluse of his horrifying thoughts, until Micah’s words collected him from his daze. The threat which rolled from his tongue provoking a strong reaction. One which prompted him to grab the man by the throat. 

Though he wasn’t the only one. Surprised, no more than that, awestruck, at the sight of Hosea, holding Micah up. Defying gravity and any and all laws of nature as he stared the man dead in the eyes.

“That’s about enough.” He said calmly. Stern. Leaving no room for objection.

Everyone stood still. Watching the older man, who they’d never seen in such duress. So hostile. He was normally the one to keep a level head. Under any other circumstances, it was Dutch who was quick to anger. And it would be Hosea, who spoke reason and brought him back down to Earth. Though, now, against all odds, it was Dutch who was charged with removing Hosea from the situation. Hand resting on the man’s shoulder, though unable to move him. Almost afraid of what would happen if he tried.

“If you ever...threaten Arthur, or another camp member again, rest assured, Micah, I will kill you.” He said. Blunt and deadly serious. Not a hint of derision in his voice. Only the cold, hard truth. One Micah quivered at. Nodding desperately. Red face slowly turning purple, until Hosea finally released him. Stepping back, calm and quiet. Seemingly returned to his natural state, as he slid his hands slowly into his pockets and wandered off. Dozens of eyes watching him as he sulked back into his tent.

There is perhaps, nothing stronger, than the love of a parent for their child. 

Micah hadn’t known that.

Hosea was more than willing to teach him.

 


	7. She Wore a Yellow Ribbon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Better to have loved and lost, than to never have loved at all.

Arthur had been sixteen at the time. A brash and stupid young gun, much like Sean these days. John had been twenty-two. The older, wiser brother, who was obnoxiously gregarious and better than Arthur at essentially everything. Dutch had been in his early thirties, Hosea in his late forties, and Annabelle was rounding off on twenty seven. 

The day she’d been taken came as an entirely unexpected surprise. One that was both devastating and abrupt. Almost a year had passed since Dutch had killed Colm’s brother, and though they’d parted ways, he’d never exactly expressed his anger. Nor barbarous vendetta against the Van der Lindes. Rather, vanishing, almost so abruptly, that it seemed as though he’d never even existed in the first place. 

If only.

It had been an average day. One of complete and utter mediocrity. One in which everyone worked tirelessly to complete their daily chores. Though back then, the gang had been much smaller. Of the women, it had only been Karen, Ms. Grimshaw, and Jenny. And Annabelle of course. All much younger, and far too trusting of the world. Up until then, they had no reason not to be. No feud or fight had ever backfired, nor affected them. Negatively or otherwise. A truth that resulted in their carelessness. They were far too caught up in the excitement of being outlaws. Not at all recognizing the danger which accompanied the lives they lead.

She’d gone into town. A seemingly harmless endeavor. Unaccompanied, as per usual, given that the folks in Jackson, knew who she was. And, of course, who they would answer to, had they attempted to harm her in any way. 

Annabelle and Dutch had been engaged in a very loving relationship for a number of years. He was entirely devoted to and completely enslaved by the enchantment this woman provided. A woman he’d have married, had he been a different man. One with more to offer than a life of crime. Though he knew better than that. Outlaws didn’t get married. Married meant settling down. Married meant giving up his life. His plans of expansion. And he loved her, he really did, but not enough to throw everything he’d built away. Not yet.

He didn’t even notice, at first, that she had gone. Regrettably, preoccupied with his two sons, who’d been attempting to settle a debate with him, over who was the better shot. At the time, John had been, though, given his soft-spot and leniency toward Arthur, he’d said otherwise. Prompting them to then turn to Hosea, who answered honestly. He’d always had the principal of never lying to the boys. That way, they knew they could always trust him. He was a conman, both him and Dutch were, and he feared that if they started lying to the two of them now, they might never see a day in which their words wouldn’t be questioned. As someone who demanded respect and faith so often, Hosea figured Dutch would understand that. But most times he didn’t.

Their argument had lasted for a number of minutes. Quickly escalating into a competition which had drawn in everyone’s attention. And it was then that Dutch realized she was absent. Not at all concerned, at first, as he wandered aimlessly around the camp. Asking the girls later on, who’d said innocently enough: “She went to town”. 

And he didn’t see anything wrong with that. She’d gone many times before; and whenever she did, it was never for long. However, as the minutes dragged on, he couldn’t help the rotten feeling in his stomach. The kind that only occurs when something indescribably awful has happened. Turning it over and over; a constant reminder of her absence. Before he knew it, those minutes had become hours, and soon enough he was tired of waiting. Calling over John as the both of them then rode into town. Searching and asking around for her. Growing more and more perturbed as the pair received only blank stares and brief shakes of the head. It wasn’t until he saw her bloody yellow ribbon nailed to the pole outside the train station that he knew what had happened.

The two returned to camp in record speed, rounding up what few men they had. A measly eight in the face of Colm’s fifteen or more. Though in his state of rage, Dutch was about as dangerous as ten men. Weighing through the compound they’d managed to locate a day or so later, as if his skin were made of iron. Bullets seemed to phase right through him, leaving not a scratch. Unharmed, as the group slowly overpowered the O’Driscolls. Arthur and John had been the last few to enter. Instructed explicitly by Hosea to hang back. To shoot any stragglers, or fools who’d tried to hide. Purposely attempting to keep them as far away from the action as possible. Not because he didn’t have confidence in their abilities, as they participated in heists quite frequently, rather, he knew what they would find. He knew it, and Dutch knew it, but of course, Hosea was the only one as per usual to be realistic about things. Knowing the shift Dutch would undergo once they found her. A shift which would reveal a side to Dutch the boys had yet to see. A side he hoped they never would.

Arthur had never been squeamish at the sight of blood. Dead bodies, or maimed men never repelled him or tempted him to turn away in disgust. However that day, that day had been different. Those bodies hadn’t just been bodies. 

He’d met Colm. He’d run with him and Dutch and Hosea for several years. These men old, young, heads blown apart, faces disfigured, bodies scattered across the yard...they were men he knew. Men he’d run with for a long time. Older brother figures, and friends, perhaps a few childish enemies. But he’d saved their lives, and they’d saved his more times than he could possibly hope to count. Looking at them now, gave him a feeling he couldn’t describe. Something like sorrow. Or regret. A strange pain in his chest gnawing at him like he was suppose to know what it meant. Like he was suppose to know what to do, or say to these blank faces staring up at him. Conflicted for the first time in his life. Not for a lack of faith, or heaven forbid a lack of nerve, but rather an overabundance of uncertainty. Of fear. Apprehension. Arthur had lost his father at a fairly young age, and despite their relation, he had no love for the man. He’d never met his mother and from the time he was twelve, up until then, the gang had been all he’d ever known. All he’d ever cared about.

He’d never lost anything he cared about before. The mere prospect being far and away from his mind. Until then. When he found himself facing a fear he didn’t even know he had. The fear of loss. Eyes slowly dragging up the stairs of the building before him. Watching Dutch who’d begun kicking in doors. Violent and entirely ruthless. Eyes burning with something more than hate. Something more than fury. And as Arthur watched him, he came to find that he was almost intimidated by him. Afraid. Stalking after John hesitantly as he ran up alongside Hosea. All three wary of Dutch who moved almost quicker than they could follow. Firing upon any man unlucky enough to be found in his sights. 

It wasn’t until he’d opened the last door that he froze. Urging John and Hosea to do the same. Though Arthur didn’t. Fear pumping adrenaline through his heart so fast that it felt as if it were seconds away from flying out of his chest. Stopping dead behind the Dutch, who halted abruptly. Harsh pants coming to an aggressive slow. Hands falling limp at his sides. 

The second he stepped inside, the world shifted. Clear shapes and objects becoming ambiguous holes in reality. A dull fog rolled across the room, drowning everything out into an indecipherable haze. A haze that erased every thought from his head; paralyzing his body. He tensed, muscles locking in place. An icy wind swept through the room, choking the breath from his lungs. Forming a noose around his neck; savage and bitter as the phantom fibres gripped his flesh. Like freezing claws, lodged in his throat. His heart constricted, as if unsure as to whether or not it should continue to beat. 

Ten seconds passed, then twenty, then thirty, and finally the shock began to pull back, like the tide going out. It left his fingers first, eliciting a small jolt from their tips. Then walking its way up his arms and down his legs. Freeing his body from that horrible state of despondency. Urging him forward where he fell to his knees. Almost in slow motion to Arthur who watched in absolute horror. Unable to process the events as they unfolded. 

For a moment the world stood still. Everyone and everything froze; as if there was nothing on the planet worth moving for. As if all life on Earth as they knew it had ceased to have any meaning. Arthur was confident nothing could break the silence. Not a breath, not a word, not even the pounding in his chest. Watching the drop of blood that trickled soundlessly from the tip of her finger onto the wood floor below. 

For one horrible moment, Dutch, wasn’t Dutch. And as Arthur peered over his shoulder, gazing at Annabelle's bruised, abandoned, and broken body, he hardly recognized the man that had stepped in after her. His movements were slow. Calculated. Terrified. Guns slipping from his fingers as he reached up, trembling hands dragging her down into his arms. Every movement, inaudible, to Arthur who could do nothing but stare. 

There was somethin dark about that room. Something ominous and it sent shivers down Arthur’s spine. He felt cold, as if the temperature had suddenly dropped. Stiff and almost unable to conceive that Annabelle was dead. He’d always liked her. She was nice, very caring and sweet. The closest thing he’d ever had to a mother figure. A wonderful girl, that didn’t deserve whatever had been done to her. He slowly stepped into the room. Gazing down at the stained cotton sheets lining the mattress Dutch had pulled her from. Entirely soaked in blood. An inconceivably grotesque amount of blood. Harsh odor filling his nostrils. 

One that smelled like pain. 

More than that, torture. 

More than that; death.

He didn’t know what to do. What to think. Everything seemed so surreal. As if he were drifting within something eerily similar to a dream. As though he weren’t even really there. Mind and heart adrift somewhere in the back of his head as his body faced the full gravity of the situation. Though what Arthur perceived as years, in reality, was only a number of seconds. Snapped from his daze as he felt his lips moving. A sound whispered between them. One he couldn’t even recognize as a word until several moments had passed.

“D-Dutch…” He’d said. Voice soft and low. Like a child, frightened and confused. Innocent and entirely ignorant. Staring at the back of the man’s head, though incapable of any perception into the anger and unreconciled sorrow radiating from him. Incapable of noticing his shaking shoulders, or limp stature. Suspended in disbelief. 

“Get out.” Dutch had said. Tone harsh and calloused, and it cut into Arthur like a knife. He had never formally seen Dutch angry. Upset, sure. Though never to this degree. Never to the point in which he couldn’t even recognize his mentors’ voice. Mystified and admittedly a bit scared. And yet, he couldn’t find the strength to move. Only staring. Wide eyed and seemingly lost.

“Get out, Arthur.” He repeated. Arms tightening around Annabelle’s corpse. Head bowing into the dip of her neck. Limp and cold as she lay dead in his arms. Again, Arthur stood still. Vaguely aware of John’s hand on his shoulder. One that gently urged him away, but he wouldn’t budge.

“GET OUT!” He roared. Voice reverberating sonorously throughout the room. Thunderous and jarring, causing both boys to jolt. Each stepping back hesitantly until they’d both exited. Met soon by Hosea, who stood speechless. Hand over his face. Tears in his eyes. Shuffling past both Arthur and John. Door slammed shut behind him. Leaving them to stand in an abhorrent silence. One that in and of itself was unnerving. Sinister, for what it meant.

Arthur had only been scared of Dutch once in his entire life. 

And it had been the day that Annabelle died.

 

*

 

Several days had passed since the gold heist. Since Arthur’s mystification, Trelawny’s state of fear, and Hosea’s outburst which most were hesitant to discuss. In the face of his uselessness and perpetual cowardice, Trelawny had been sent in a convoy with the Callander boys and Micah down south. Well, further south than they already were, in order to cash out on the gold they’d acquired. Off to a place called BunCombe county. Far enough away, Dutch figured, from Mr. Renaud’s influence. Therefore, they wouldn’t be suspected of robbery; as they likely would if they were to enter Maxwell with as many nuggets as they had. Though, not all the gold had been taken. A number of boxes had been left behind for ease of transport, as well as for the camp to use freely. Most stores in the area would trade in gold. The very few who didn’t, being snobby rich places that only accepted cash. Places they didn’t hang around anyhow.

In the meantime, the rest of the camp was preparing; anxious and overly excited. A bit jumpy, to be quite frank. Something Arthur found a bit annoying. Even if Colm knew where they were, he wouldn’t be stupid enough to attack. They had the advantage of higher ground, and clear shot at any idiots daft enough to try climbing up. Even if he was crazy, he wasn’t that crazy. And besides, Colm and Dutch had been having their quarrels since what felt like the dawn of time. It had been about four years since Annabelle’s death. And neither one had yet managed to snuff out the other. And Arthur had to wonder if they ever would. Or if their feud was something that had become so normal for them, that they wouldn’t know how to live without it. He suspected as much, though more for Colm than Dutch. True, Dutch had yet to kill the man, but it wasn’t for a lack of trying. He very much hated him. More than that he abhorred him. It wasn’t a game of cat at mouse, as Arthur figured Colm saw it, rather, it was very much serious. Very much a matter of life and death. If Colm were right there, right then, Dutch would have shot him in the face. No questions asked. No drawn out, heartfelt, despair ridden monologue. Just a bullet between the eyes. 

So he wasn’t worried. And he figured, rightfully so, that no one else had any reason to be either. He knew that if ever Colm were within shooting distance of Dutch, he was as good as dead. Thinking back on that day in a dull recollection. It seemed so long ago now. Especially in light of John’s disappearance. Part of Arthur wondered if maybe that’s why he’d left. If he remembered correctly, he’d gone shortly after hearing of Abigail’s pregnancy. He wondered if maybe John was afraid. Of losing her, like Dutch had lost Annabelle. Losing Jack. And rather than growing attached to them and running the risk of the world ripping them from his arms, he gave them up instead. Saving himself from the pain. Though Arthur doubted it. Not for any rational reasoning. Rather if that had been John’s motive, he knew he’d never be able to forgive him. 

Dutch and Hosea may have had the insight to raise them to be liars, and thieves, and cheats, and outlaws in a world full of evil men, with wicked intent. 

But they had never raised them to be cowards.

Arthur liked to think the years since then had matured him to a point in which he’d surpassed John. He liked to think that he was a better man than him. That he wouldn’t let Dutch or Hosea down. That he wouldn’t leave. He didn’t think about John much, but he found himself wondering then, where on Earth he could possibly be. Spiteful at the fact that, despite everything, all the pain and turmoil he’d faced at his brother’s hands...he’d give anything to see him again. If only to ask him why. If only to know he was alive. If only to know, he hadn’t been murdered, or slaughtered rather, like Annabelle had. If ever he found John’s body, mangled and lifeless like that, he didn’t know what he would do. But he figured, his reaction would be something like Dutch’s. Maybe even worse. 

Though they’d run in with the O’Driscolls several times in the past half year, they’d never been this close to them. Usually, their heists took place far enough away from camp, to avoid suspicion. But that gold mine, had been close. Close enough for Dutch to be pacing outside his tent. Not because he was worried, exactly, but rather, he knew he had to devise a plan of some kind. 

Arthur and Hosea, on the other hand rested, rather peaceably in the shade of a few trees which leaned partly over the fire. Arthur, writing in his journal. Confessing his feelings, both back then, and his current view of them. Glancing occasionally to Hosea, and the book he was reading. A mystery novel of some kind. Likely a wordy one, because the man had been reading it for over a year now. And it seemed as though every time Arthur looked, he was on the same page.

The men, apart from them, were participating in miscellaneous jobs. Bill and Henry were out with Javier. Apparently, he’d discovered a rather large mansion. Secluded in the woods. Not far from Maxwell, though far enough for them to potentially strike. In light of their troubles, Dutch had instructed they leave it alone, though it never hurt to look. Scope out the best point of entry. Creed and Strauss were busy budgeting. Apparently, a number of the camp funds had gone missing. Not enough to be particularly troubling, but enough to hone their suspicion. Clive had been drifting, as far as anyone knew. Not very often at camp, growing more and more distant, though he normally did this time of year, so no one thought anything of it. Sean was out with a few of the girls in town. Hoping to strike up some business as they normally did. Though Arthur knew that was a rather hopeless endeavor. The people of Maxwell liked to pretend they had standards. Apparently repulsed by the thought of prostitution or sexual relations of any kind. Snobs, essentially. 

Kieran and Pearson were, doing what they normally did. Preparing the stew as Ms. Grimshaw passed by indiscreetly. Sprinkling spices into the pot when no one was looking; something Arthur watched her do in mild amusement. Also glancing occasionally to Uncle and Reverend Swanson, who seemingly hadn’t moved for days. Slumped against the liquor cart. Incapacitated; from a distance looking dead, though what was new. All in all, it had been a rather boring past few days. Awaiting Trelawny’s return, though Arthur had very much enjoyed Micah’s absence. Relishing in the long awaited and much appreciated silence. Silence: a seemingly foreign concept. Though nothing ever stays silent for long.

“Arthur.” Charles said, approaching slowly. Arms crossed as he stopped in front of the boy. Nodding to Hosea who gave him a brief wave of recognition. Arthur dragged his feet down from the table on which they rested and folded his journal shut. Peering up at Charles, brows raised, neutral expression illustrating that he was listening.

“Come on.” He ordered simply. Tilting his head, gesturing toward the horses, which Arthur glanced at. Pursing his lips and furrowing his brows for a moment before standing. Sliding his journal into his satchel and following after Charles, who led. Quiet, as he typically was, and Arthur couldn’t help but wonder if perhaps he was upset about Micah and him having killed that deer the week prior. 

Everyone had seen it as no big deal. Karen, had been the only one to confront him about it, but even then, it didn’t really matter to her. Charles was a good man. One Arthur always respected. He liked to think Charles respected him too. A bit fearful that perhaps he’d jeopardized that respect by means of his own childish hamartia. Stupidity.

He mounted Boadicea hesitantly. Glancing occasionally to Charles who road Taima. Both following the trail down the hill and out of camp. Greeting Lenny who stood watch as they left. 

“Stay outta trouble you two.” He’d said. Something Arthur chuckled at. Waving him off. Though a bit wary still, at the grimace that rested on Charles’ face. Instantly suspicious as to where they were going and why. Wondering if perhaps he was going to take him somewhere to teach him a lesson of some kind. Like the time back in Havens Borough, when he’d been about eighteen. Resting at camp after a heist gone wrong, bored out of his adolescent mind. Making up stories to kill the silence, about the supposedly dangerous “injuns” that roamed the woods in which they’d been staying. The gods they worshiped, the ghosts and spirits they claimed rested and walked amongst the trees. Joking and kidding in an attempt to make himself laugh. As well as John, though, he didn’t find it as funny. 

Charles had been sitting by the fire, listening to him silently for about ten minutes or so. Then rising, and in a quiet, and respectful tone saying, “Come with me.” And because he was bored, Arthur did. Led along in silence, like now. Excited and thirsty for an adventure until they’d arrived. 

Trotting up an old, barren trail which lead them to a crossroads. Though it wasn’t the ominous quiet, nor the seemingly lifeless woods. Rather, it was the enormous graveyard they found themselves in. Decorated with animal bones which hung loose from tree limbs. Dream-catchers drifting subtly in the wind. A cemetery almost so big, he couldn’t see the ends of it. Silent and utterly horrified as the two discounted smack dab in the middle, where, the two paths sliced through it sloppily. Not at all aligned with the graves. 

It was a place called Choctaw rest. 

Charles then went on to tell him about this magnificent tribe of men and women. Honourable. Peaceful. Willing to allow white men to settle on their land. Welcoming and accommodating. A few had even learned English, and began teaching their children in the hopes that peace would maintain. Good, honest people. People who believed that their gods would protect them. That no harm could befall them on the grounds of their ancestors.

But they were wrong. 

It had been a particularly violent group of confederates. They’d been living in peace for decades now. Uncivilized perhaps, so much so that they didn’t even pose a threat. Though despite the fact, at the beginning of the civil war, the grey army had swept through. Slaughtered them just for standing in their way. They didn’t even have the decency to bury them. A neighbouring tribe, their enemy, after hearing of the incident, came to those lands. Blessed them, covered their bodies in soil. Honoured them, where the white men had not. 

When Arthur asked him how he’d known about that story, he told him that the Choctaw had been his people. The last of his people. Shortly after the war had begun, his father had convinced his mother to leave with them. He’d known what was coming. Though, unfortunately, they hadn’t left early enough. His mother was captured, and as far as he knew, she was dead. Killed amongst her people, which at the very least provided some comfort. Knowing she died amongst friends. Buried under one of these crosses. Though he’d never know for sure.

Needless to say Arthur never joked about Indians again.

He wondered if Charles might take him to another graveyard. Though he figure there wouldn't be one full of deer carcasses, which he might utilize to prove a point.

“Uh, Charles...I’m, I wanted to say I’m sorry about the uh, deer. I shouldn’t have let Micah kill it. I-I know how you uh, prefer that we don’t um, y’know.” He said. Awkward and a bit slow. Hesitating as Charles peered over his shoulder at him. Blank expression. Unreadable which worried Arthur, for the fact that he couldn’t tell if he was upset or not.

“I understand Arthur. I’m not angry about that.” He told him. Slowing until they were even. Riding steadily, side by side.

“Well, I just thought, I’d apologize anyway.” He murmured softly. Relieved by the small smirk Charles flashed him. Nodding to him as he said, “Thank you.”

Arthur nodded back. Inhaling deeply as he glanced at the man. Eyes then wandering. Tracing the woods and the path on which they road. Unable to recognize the land, as he’d never gone this far west before. Wondering where Charles was taking him, though found himself unable to ask. Riding soundlessly for several more minutes as the constant silence continued to irk him. Causing him to shift anxiously in his saddle every few seconds until he finally turned to the man.

“So, uh...where’re we going?” He questioned. Clearing his throat and chewing absentmindedly on his tongue. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Charles, rather, he was bit intimidated by him. Though he’d never admit that. Very much wishing to know where he stood with the man. Very much hoping he wasn’t riding to his death. Though riding with Charles always gave him that kind of feeling. One of impending doom.

“When we first came to Maxwell, Javier and I went searching for a good place to set up camp. Stumbled upon a tribe. That hill we’re on? It’s their land. Dutch mentioned the O’Driscolls being too close for comfort. I want to warn Chief Running Fox. Let him know there might be trouble.”

“Sure.” Arthur nodded. Relieved, though also a bit tense. He’d seen tribes before. Passed by them a couple times. He’d met Indians, though not many. Charles was the only one with which he’d had relations of any kind. And even then he didn’t know much about them. Apart from that they were dangerous. Dangerous and uncivilized, though you could say the same about the Van der Linde gang, so he wasn’t worried so much as he was nervous. Unsure what he would do or say, or what he could possibly contribute to the situation. He thought Indians hated white men. At least that’s what Dutch had always said. But then again, he’d always been biased. A cousin of his had been killed by Indians, as far as Arthur knew, though Dutch had always been notoriously tight lipped on the subject. Especially since Charles joined the gang.

“Cut to the left here, Arthur.” He said. Gesturing to the side, where Arthur began to drift. Charles close behind, gradually taking the lead as they rode slowly into a clearing. One in which a number of tents and tee-pees had been erected. 

Men and women crowded around them. Walking alongside the two as they drew nearer. Subtle advancement growing slower and slower until they’d both dismounted.

“Leave your weapons on your horse.” Charles had said. An order Arthur had the instinct to question, though he didn’t. Instead, abiding his words, accompanying Charles as they began walking leisurely toward a man who Arthur could only assume was the Chief. A bit confused, given that he was dressed in the average fashion of men these days. A cotton shirt. Work boots. Jeans. Suspenders. Though his entire outfit was offset by the rather large, fastidious head dress he wore. One that had obviously been worn for a very long time. The white feathers which framed it were frayed and dirtied. Though magnificent all the same. The man which wore them, was a very aged individual. In his sixties, if Arthur could tell. Ashen face and weary stance illustrating his declining health. Something he took into account as they drew nearer.

“Chief.” Charles said, nodding to him as he gestured to his companion, “This is Arthur Morgan. He’s a friend.”

For a brief moment, Arthur was mortified. Freezing in place as his eyes frantically flicked between Charles and the Chief. Unsure what he was supposed to do. Charles had done a greeting of some kind as they’d approached, though he hadn’t been paying attention. Thinking back to his earliest recollections of Indian interactions. Trying to remember how they addressed one another. Holding his breath and hesitating. Terrified of the prospect of offending the man, furthermore either embarrassing or offending Charles. Unsure as to what the repercussions would be. Ultimately letting out a sigh of relief as the Chief extended his hand. Taking it gladly and shaking it.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you Arthur Morgan. I am Chief Running Fox.” He told him, soft, sincere smile on his face.

His voice was...unexpected. Smooth. Wise. Very pleasing to the ear. Arthur could imagine himself getting lost in the stories an old Chief like him might tell. Stepping back behind Charles as he folded his hands in front of himself. Respectfully awaiting their conversation to begin. A feeling of uselessness and vulnerability making him a bit shifty. Usually, when he came along on missions like this, it was as backup. Or muscle. Without his weapons, however, surrounded by people he didn’t know, he was made quite apprehensive.

“What brings you here?” Chief questioned, bending down, parting the flaps of his tee-pee with his arm. Stepping inside, where he was soon followed by Charles and Arthur. Each taking a seat around the small fire within. “Have you come to visit Kaiah again?”

Charles shook his head, smile slipping from his face as he made eye contact with the man. Letting him know the matter he’d come to address was serious. One of great importance. Though that did nothing to dampen Arthur’s curiosity as to who Kaiah was.

“I’ve come to warn you. The people I travel with. They have a long history, a long feud, with a man named Colm O’Driscoll. He’s an evil man. He has no honour. He knows only pride and violence. He brings trouble wherever he walks. He-” Charles began. Pausing at the hand that was held up to silence him.

“Trouble is a constant thing for me and my people. I expected no less when you came to settle upon this land. What dangers will come, we will face. Now come, we celebrate tonight. My daughter, Shikoba has given birth to a son. I would be honored, if you and your friend would stay to celebrate with us.”

Charles sighed and nodded. Knowing Running Fox wouldn’t listen to him. He was a traditional man. More so than most Chiefs in recent years, which he had to appreciate, though as the times changed, men became less worthy of the trust and mercy Running Fox supplied. He still had faith in his people. Their beliefs and way of life. He would die, before he allowed any man, to break his will. To change his mind about how the world was meant to be. Something Charles respected, though still found foolish.

Glancing at Arthur as he rose to his feet and stepped outside. Arthur began to follow him, though was stopped by the Chief who asked him politely to sit back down. Warm smile incapable of being refused. 

“Your friend thinks I am passive.” He began, chuckling softly, “That I must know who walks upon this land.” He shook his head, reaching for the pipe beside him. Lighting the tobacco within, taking a deep puff from it. Long exhale met with a look of confusion. One he grinned at.

“Shouldn’t you?” Arthur inquired, taking the pipe as the man offered it to him. Examining it briefly, before breathing from it. Watching the Chief as he dropped a collection of twigs onto the fire.

“Perhaps. If I owned this land.” He replied.

Again, Arthur sat perplexed. Tilting his head, coughing as the smoke rolled up his throat and out of his mouth. Eyes watering at the fumes rising up into his face.

“Don’t you?” He questioned, handing him back the pipe.

The Chief shook his head, “I have no say, in which trees are chopped down. I cannot decide which animals are hunted. I do not chose when it rains. No, I do not own this land. No one does.” He paused, glancing up at Arthur who listened intently. “If trouble finds us, we will move, as we have a dozen times before. And if it finds us again, we will move again. We will move, until there is no land left to move to. Though by then, hopefully those who carry trouble on their backs will have realized that this land is worthless, to men who have no respect for it.”

Arthur nodded. Pretending he could understand the majority of what Running Fox had said. Lost for the philosophy of his words. A perspective entirely opposite to the one he was accustomed to. What with Dutch constantly talking about ownership. Who owned what, who didn’t deserve to own what, and who would be the one to steal it. He’d never thought about things in this way. A bit caught off guard by the man’s reasoning, though also a touch impressed.

“So you ain’t worried about some deranged lunatic moseying on into the center of your tribe?” He questioned. Immediately regretting the phrasing of his words. Something Hosea frequently chided him on. Relieved however, by the Chief who laughed loudly.

“Troubles comes in many forms, Mr. Morgan. A storm, A wolf, A man. And a man, I fear the least.”

“Right, well it ain’t just one man.” Arthur told him warily. Standing as the Chief did. Recognizing the sorrow in his eyes. Trapped behind the elusive brown which propagated cheer, or carelessness. A look Dutch often got in his eyes when he talked about Annabelle. Or John. A look Arthur sympathized with instantly.

“It never is.” Running Fox said.

Wide smile shielding the exhaustion on his face. Leading Arthur out, where he saw Charles talking with a number of natives. Men. Each attentive and resolute. Likely telling them about Colm, he figured. Warning them, as was necessary. Arthur had no doubt Running Fox and his tribe had run into some dangerous men. But none to the degree of Colm O’Driscoll.

He was in a league of his own. 

One Arthur hoped these people would never face. But of course, anyone associated with the Van der Linde gang, was liable to be caught in the middle of their war.

The only person who knew that better than Arthur, was Annabelle.

And she had paid the price.


	8. Blue Shadows on The Trail

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Never say no twice, if you mean it.

Over the course of the next few hours, Arthur found himself acquainted with a large number of the tribe’s populace. Not that he would remember most of their names. 

It was a bit surprising to him, in all honesty, considering how many of them spoke English. And not, poor, grammatically flawed English, but rather, perfect English. Even better than his own, admittedly, but he didn’t mind that much. Far too caught up in their magnificent stories and captivating fables, so much so, that he couldn’t even stop to care. These folks were perhaps even more charismatic and enthralling than Dutch himself. Formulating wild tales of phantasmic origin, flowing and drifting through the air. Tunneling into his ears and painting about a million images in his mind. Images far too incredible for him to describe, with what measly vocabulary he had. Not to mention his inability to convey complicated concepts in a way that was particularly understandable. Not like these folks did. So natural and fluent. It was astonishing. Not only their speech, but also the kindness they expended. Much to his surprise, he felt comfortable in their presence. Not at all made to think he was an outsider. Singing along awkwardly with their songs, despite the language barrier. Clapping to the beat as the sun began to set and the fires doubled in size. Drums rolled out, as the women began to paint abstract art on their faces. Art meant to represent and celebrate birth and new life, though he didn’t know that. Watching in admiration all the same.

Arthur had seen a number of drunken fools dancing in a far less dignified way, in crowds large enough to be considered mobs. He’d seen countless, clumsy, graceless idiots celebrating in ways which he could consider both savage and offensive if thought hard enough. Though as he watched this ceremony, one full of strange movements, music and dancing, all entirely foreign to him, none of those words came to mind. He’d never really been one to make a fool of himself, but as he watched the tribe’s members smiling and laughing and having the time of their lives, he felt himself wanting to join them. Though figured it wasn’t his place, or that he’d only embarrass himself. Glancing a few times at Charles who stood at the edge of the light caste by the fire, arms crossed, intimidating from afar, though from where Arthur sat, he could very plainly see the smile which graced his features. Genuine and quite rare, if Arthur was being honest. Grin creeping onto his own face, as he saw an Indian woman beside him. Laughing and dancing in circles around the man. Obviously, tempting him to join the celebration, and though he chuckled at her persistent advances, he wouldn’t budge. 

It wasn’t long before Charles began waving him over. Likely as a distraction so that she’d stop pestering him.

“Arthur, this is Kaiah. Running Fox’s daughter.” He told him, gesturing to the woman, who, as Arthur now stood before her, he realized was very short. Reaching about the height of his shoulder, though nowhere near surpassing it, “Kaiah, this is Arthur.”

She held out her hand, still swaying side to side, feet moving strategically upon the dirt, wide smile, both cheerful and enchanting. Dark hair swept back into a loose braid. Cognac eyes fluttering with unbridled joy. A very child-like soul, Arthur could tell. Happy and carefree.

“Yes, I am Kaiah. Daughter of Running Fox. Though I am also known as migraine. Or headache. To Charles at least.” She giggled, sticking out her tongue briefly at the man who rolled his eyes. Soft smirk on his face. Arthur glanced between the two, chuckling awkwardly as she grabbed his hand and spun herself under it. Then turning to Charles, circling him as she twirled on her toes. Arms loose and methodical as they swayed above her head. 

She was a very unique character. Young, though older than Arthur by quite a bit. Energetic and full of life. The embodiment of childish youth, if ever he saw it, and yet still there was a faint wisdom in her eyes. Hiding behind her exuberant disposition. There was something deceptive about those eyes. Not in a particularly malevolent way, but rather, a playful, good-natured manor. A personality which was entirely opposite to Charles, and yet he could still sense the man’s fondness for her. The kind one tries to suppress in an attempt to seem indifferent. Though it didn’t quite work as effectively as he thought. 

“Do you like to dance?” She questioned suddenly. Feet quickly shifting upon the soil. Kicking up dust as her heels scraped the ground. Wide, hopeful eyes burning into Arthur’s, causing him to stand, a bit flustered for a moment. Caught off guard as he murmured, “Well, I ain’t particularly good at it.”

She paused and stared at him for a moment. Deadly serious until bursting into laughter. Doubling over, as she, for several minutes, attempted to collect herself. A daunting brightness in her eyes as she grabbed his hands, “There is no such thing as a good or bad dance.” She told him, hopping from one foot to the other, gesturing for him to do the same. Arthur glanced hesitantly at Charles, who chuckled at him, before falling in sync with her movements.

“Some advice?” She offered, glancing up at him.

He shrugged, confused smirk, and raised brows meeting her jubilant gaze. “Sure.” He said.

“When the creator speaks, listen. And when the ancestors say move your feet. Then dance!” She laughed again, dragging him toward the fire where the others swayed and whirled and gyrated in vigorous finesse. Welcoming the two as they made their way into the crowd. Dancing wildly and carelessly. Sloppy, and uncoordinated in the case of Arthur, but no one cared. Skill wasn’t of importance. Attitude was. This was a celebration of birth. Of life. New life, and any positive energy expended that night was seen as a contribution to their health. Not to mention the appeasement of their ancestors. This was a night of thanks, and despite Arthur’s flaws, and appalling attempts at dance; he was one with them all.

Charles would have joined in. He really would have, especially given his fondness for Kaiah, though he was troubled. Wary and unable to celebrate in light of what he knew. Colm wasn’t the kind of man to kill for a reason. Surely, sometimes, and rarely, he did. Either insane, or entirely redundant, reasons but for the most part Colm killed, just for the sake of killing. Escorted constantly by the scum of the Earth who followed his every whim. Evil, despicable men. He couldn’t imagine watching another tribe being slaughtered. Natives were already members of a dying breed. Numbers diminishing as the years dragged on. He couldn't imagine watching another magnificent group of men and women succumb to the vacuum of time. Though most importantly, or rather, foremost on his mind, he couldn’t imagine losing Kaiah. Though he hadn’t known her long, something about her set him ablaze. That dwindling flame in his soul, was made a raging fire in her presence. They were like two halves of a whole, though despite the fact; he was afraid. Not only of losing her, but of having her. He wouldn’t be able to live with himself if his life got her killed. But he didn’t know much other than violence. Much like the other members of the Van der Linde gang, a life of crime was all he’d ever known

“Why do you not dance?” Running Fox inquired. Standing beside Charles who glanced at him briefly. Deep sigh escaping him. Running Fox reminded him of his father. Not because the two were anything alike, rather, Charles had always wished for his father to be a wise, and caring man. He wasn’t spiteful for the fact that he wasn’t, but he respected Running Fox greatly, and viewed him as more than just a confidante. Not necessarily family, as they weren’t that well acquainted, but certainly more than a friend.

“I’m troubled.” He replied. Blunt and to the point. 

Though he shared in native blood, Charles didn’t necessarily share their skills of speech. He wasn’t all that good at describing things, nor using analogies. Something he found most white men liked about him. Especially the dim witted ones. Or feign of heart.

“No.” Running Fox said quickly, “There will be no trouble here tonight. It is a celebration. Happiness and smiles only.”

He looked at Charles, sympathy laden in his eyes. Perhaps more than that. Compassion, or sincerity. He understood. Though aged, and preaching a different tune, in his youth he’d fought many battles. Many wars and many fights. Trouble always seemed to find him, and it wasn’t until he’d grown too old to draw a bow that he realized how flawed his thinking had been. Peace, and understanding was the only way to remedy the hate in this world. Even if eventually it killed him. He’d have rather died a good and honest old man, than a troubled and angry young man. And yet, despite the fact, he understood Charles’ conflicted state perhaps better than the man would ever know.

“You should celebrate. There is much joy to be expressed tonight.” He said, glancing out into the cluster of moving bodies. Soft, appreciative smile creeping onto his face as he picked out Arthur amongst them. Out of place, and yet right at home.

“It seems Kaiah has found a new partner with which to dance.” He chuckled. For a moment sent into a coughing fit. One that urged Charles to peer down at him in concern. Though he said nothing. Only gazing at Kaiah from afar. Eyes lackluster for something more like desire.

“I see how you look at her.” Running Fox said once he’d recovered. Knowing glaze framing his features. Nodding toward Kaiah gently “You should pursue her.”

Charles sighed again and pursed his lips. Despair deeply laden in his words, “No. I...I can’t.”

“Why not? I give you my blessing. She would make a fine wife, I’m sure. And you a fine husband for her. I have never seen her frown in your presence.”

For several moments Charles was silent. Teeth clenched, biting back what he wanted to say. He wanted to tell Running Fox who he was. What kind of man he was talking to.

“I don’t deserve her.” He murmured.

Lonesome eyes tracing her figure, and the shadow she caste at his feet.

“Do you think my daughter a fool?” Running Fox questioned. Crossing his arms, giving Charles a questioning look. One that had a more telling emotion behind it. A more cunning guile.

Charles shook his head, “No, I do not.”

“Then let her decide, what she deserves.”

A long silence passed between them. One in which a spark flickered dully in Charles’ chest. Something like hope, though he snuffed it out quickly. He was a dangerous man. His life was ever more dangerous still. He couldn’t allow himself to subject her to that. He couldn’t take her from her people and force her to live her life on the run. And he knew he couldn’t stay, either. He was a nomad, and despite their differences, his loyalties lie with Dutch. He was a man of his word, and he’d pledged himself to the gang. He couldn’t go back on his oath, even if he wanted to.

“I can’t.” He said again. Though this time, his voice deepened. Determined. As if willing himself not to change his mind. 

Running Fox shook his head. Hand coming to rest upon Charles’ shoulder. Determined and truthful as he spoke, “My son, many things in life will catch your eye, but you much pursue only those which capture your heart. I know that she has done both.”

He smiled wide and sincerely before wandering aimlessly into the dark. Leaving Charles to stand in a dull contemplation. One full of ‘what ifs’ and questions he knew he couldn’t answer. Heart murmuring as he watched her let down her hair. He couldn’t think of a single thing on the planet which better fit the description of utter perfection. There was no denying it. He loved her. 

And there wasn’t much he could do about it either.

 

*

 

It was getting late. Well, later than most citizen would be out and about. The sun was setting, and with it a number of the town’s residents had gone home to sleep off the day's toil. Though what was late for them, was the prime time of business for the girls. Karen, Mary-Beth, and even Jenny were holed up in the bar across the street from the sheriff’s office. Watching with mischievous eyes and snide smiles as men began pouring in. Working men, they could tell. None of the rich folk who’d spit at them as they rode into town. Assuming their profession, which granted, they were right. Didn’t mean it wasn’t insulting. 

Jenny and Mary-Beth were very much sweet talkers. Pretending to be naive and childish. Standing suggestively close to men who were very much inviting of them. Minds entirely occupied and unable to recognize the small, dainty hands which slipped into their pockets. Taking what little they had on them, before moving to their next victim. Never going so far as to sleep with any them, or even supply an offer. Mary-Beth, for the fact that she couldn’t condone that kind of behavior for herself, and Jenny for the fact that she’d recently started seeing Lenny. In a more romantic way, than before. Serious. She knew he wouldn’t approve of her sleeping with other men. Karen, however, had no qualms with prostitution. And neither did Sean, oddly enough. As long as she made money, and didn’t fall in love with anyone else, he was satisfied. Standing at the bar inconspicuously, as he watched Karen escort a man up the steps. Sipping slowly from his bottle of beer as they rounded the corner and vanished from his sight.

“Your girl better pay up.” The bartender murmured, leaning over the counter toward the ginger who snickered and grinned at the man. 

“I don’t usually allow that kind of business in here.” He added.

Sean chuckled and threw a hand up and onto the man’s shoulder. One eyebrow raised as if he couldn’t fathom why this man would question him. “Don’t you worry boyo, you’ll get your share. Now crack on, you’ve got some customers.” He said, gesturing down the length of the bar at two men who stood awaiting service. The man hesitated before turning to them. Eyeing Sean’s expression for several moments before ultimately turning away.

“Thick bastard.” He muttered. Shaking his head and peering out across the room at Mary-Beth who was working her magic on some fluthered fool. One who looked wealthy enough. He’d likely have quite a bit on him, though by the looks of it, he was a bit handsy as well. Something he caught onto faster than Mary-Beth did. Leaving his beer as he began slowly meandering toward her. Waiting, at first to see if she could handle the situation on her own accord, before intervening. Taking a glance at Jenny, who was moving on to her next target. Nodding to him, a nonverbal assurance that she’d be fine for the time being. 

For a moment and for a while Mary-Beth seemed to be doing fine on her own, backing away from him, soft words intending no offence as she told him she had to head home, before her mother came looking for her. The classic scapegoat both her and Jenny had become accustomed to using. Though when he only nodded, and continued to follow her, Sean knew he had to step in. 

“Hey boyo, I think the lady told you to leave her alone.” He said, placing himself between the two, finger jabbing into the man’s chest, causing him to halt. Attention shifting to Sean who grinned madly at him. Gold tooth reflecting the candlelight glow which lit up the room. Testy look in his eyes as he lowered his hand and waited for the no doubt infuriated response.

“Get outta my way ya goddamn Mick” He growled, puffing his chest, taking a small step toward Sean who wagged one finger at him. Pointing down and giggling as the man froze after recognizing the gun aimed at his groin.

“A word of advice boyo, if you’re lookin’ ta get laid, go crawl up a chicken’s ass and wait. Otherwise scram, unless you’d _ like _ to be castrated.” He murmured, narrowing his eyes, daring the man to do anything other than walk away. Watching as he straightened himself out, brushing his collar and stuck his nose up into the air, before shuffling past. Sean watched him, to ensure he left; smiling at Mary-Beth who was doing her best to suppress a giggle.

“Crawl up a chicken’s ass and wait?” She snickered, stepping closer and glancing around the room. It was clear that she was done for the night. Of the numerous eyes that had watched the interaction, most had either already been stolen from, or weren’t drunk enough to be cheated just yet. 

“It’s not like I had a list of insults to choose from, sweetheart. Just be glad I came to your rescue.” He said, leaning against the wall beside her with one hand. Devilish grin gracing his features. 

“I could have handled him. I’m a professional if you didn’t know,” She contended.

He laughed, this time loud enough for eyes to be flicked in their direction. Hushed then by Mary-Beth, who shoved him playfully. Glancing around the room until she’d identified Jenny, who wandered toward them. Holding out three fingers at her hip, signifying she’d stolen about thirty dollars. Mary-Beth responded by holding out four. Raising an eyebrow and smiling at the woman who rolled her eyes.

“I see you both done well.” Sean said, glancing between the two, who each scanned the area. Looks of both confusion and worry on their faces. Mary-Beth parted her lips, for a moment preparing to say something. Thought both cut off, and answered by the sharp shriek and collection of thuds which followed. Staring wide eyed at the body which lay crumpled at the bottom of the stairs. Then at the man who stomped down after it. Grabbing a woman by her hair. A woman she quickly identified as Karen. Stepping forward, though Sean held out his arm to stop her. Brows furrowing as he watched the altercation. A look of realization dawning over his face as he caught the badge on the man’s shirt. A lawman. 

He quickly ushered the girls out, both of which protesting all the while. Though he promised he wasn’t going to leave her. Insisting that it would be easier to save Karen once Mary-Beth and Jenny were out of harm’s way. Mounting up with them and riding back to camp as fast as they could.

 

*

 

As long as the celebration was, it seemed to have been over and done with in the span of merely minutes. Something that brought Arthur quite a bit of distress. Wishing the two of them could stay longer, given how much he’d been enjoying himself. 

Though they partied, and got drunk often at camp, not much of anything they did could be considered “fun”. That commemoration had made him feel felt young again. Well, younger than he already was. More like a kid, he supposed. Excited and unfazed by the horrors of the world he had all but forgotten. Though everything snapped back about halfway down the road on the way home. Sobering, and urging him to slowly coming down from his high. Glances occasionally flicked to Charles. Ever the stoic and silent companion. 

Well, it had been fun while it lasted.

“I ain’t never seen no tribe before.” Arthur said. Pursing his lips, dulling the jolliness in his eyes, in an attempt to pull himself back into his habitual persona. One that, admittedly, tried too hard to be tough, at times. Rotating his jaw and reacquainting himself with his prevailing squint. Hat low on his head as was per usual.

“That was uh...enjoyable.” He added. Glancing at Charles a few more times before ascertaining that he wasn’t going to reply. Nodding to himself, eyes sluggishly scanning his surroundings. Unable to shake the feeling that someone was watching him. Recalling the trees and slight curve of the path which indicated they were almost home. Urging Boadicea to gallop a bit faster when he heard what sounded like faint arguing. Gesturing for Charles who also recognized the commotion. Each hesitant to reach the top of the hill until it was made clear who was at odds. The yelling was a mix of Ms. Grimshaw, and Dutch. Each harassing Sean, who stood nervously. Hand scratching the back of his neck. Face red and harrowing. 

“Morgan!” he called, once seeing Arthur. Walking toward him as the boy dismounted. Yanked to a halt by Dutch who ordered him to stay put as he approached the returning party. Nodding to Charles who dismissed himself before crossing his arms. Obviously heated about something.

“Where’ve you been?” He questioned, though lighter and less volatile that he could have been, meaning he was building up to the question he really wanted to ask.

“Charles and I were out explorin’.” He replied. Eyes flicking between the three aggressors who were all focused on him for one reason or another. Making him a bit suspicious. Gaze narrowing as Dutch sighed loudly.

“It doesn’t matter.” He grumbled, turning to point at Sean as he added, “This imbecile just got Karen arrested. And quite possibly killed, if we don’t go rescue her.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose. Squeezing his eyes shut as if being ravaged by a particularly violent headache. Breathing harshly as he bit his tongue and pressed his lips together. Very much attempting to suppress his rage. 

“Where’s she at Dutch?” He questioned, remounting, configuring his load-out, as he expected a fight. Ensuring each gun was loaded and ready to fire. Pausing and lowering his revolver, look of absolute doneness on his face as Dutch growled out, “Maxwell.”

“What the hell were you two doin’ in Maxwell?” Arthur called out. Glaring at Sean who held up his hands in surrender.

“Hey I didn’t know the place was off limits. The girls and I went down there to strike up some business, ain’t my fault Karen ran in with a lawman.” He replied, instantly smacked upside the head by Ms. Grimshaw who began screaming her lungs out at him. Violent curses exploding from her mouth in a way that perhaps under different circumstances would have been funny.

“Not your fault my ass.” Arthur muttered, glancing down at Dutch who began his advancement toward the Count. Waved off by Arthur who shook his head.

“‘S alright Dutch, I’ll take care o’ it.” He told him, leading Boadicea out onto the road once more. Riding out, hard and fast. Apologizing softly into her ears, as he hadn’t fed her yet that day. Nor properly watering her either. Softly stroking her neck and mane as he questioned his next move. It was quite possibly the stupidest decision to send him, rather than, anyone else, especially given that this was Sean’s mess and his woman, but alas, of the entire gang, the sheriff only knew Arthur, Dutch, and Hosea. And it was clear, which of those three, he had any kind of affinity for. Hopefully, Arthur would be able to make a deal of some kind with him. And hopefully that deputy, Junior, wouldn’t be there. 

It was dark when he rode up. Pitch dark, and from inside one of the store or building lining the main road, he would look quite ominous and shady. Something he knew wouldn’t exactly aid in his efforts, especially given the sideways glances he received by the few people wandering around outside. However, it was something he couldn’t exactly help. Leading Boadicea and hitching her to the post outside the Sheriff’s office. Dismounting and slowly trotting up the steps. Making out a dull figure lit up by a single lantern at the desk. The Sheriff, he hoped. Though he couldn’t be certain. Opening the door and slipping inside hesitantly. Met by a collection of familiar features, who were not in the least, happy to see him.

“I thought I told you to stay outta town, kid.” He said. Not exactly angry, though he certainly wasn’t overjoyed either. Slowly raising to his feet. Arms crossing. Patronizing glower burning into Arthur who for a moment or two stood silent. Actually feeling bad for some reason, as if he’d disappointed the man. Though, it’s not like he had a reason to care.

“Arthur?” A voice called. One he could instantly single out as Karen. Glancing at the man, as if asking for permission, before walking briskly down the row of cells. Followed slowly by Wykham who rolled his eyes. Stepping after the boy, grabbing the keys as he did. Leaning in the doorway as the woman hugged the bars. Fists clenched tightly around them.

“Arthur, I’m gonna kill him. I’m gonna skin that son of a bitch.” She snarled. Stepping back angrily, pacing the small cell. Furious and boiling with rage.

“Who? The feller that arrested you?” He questioned, glancing at the Sheriff, who shrugged.

“No, you idiot! Sean MacGuire. Saw the little slime ball sulk away when that piece o’ shit threw me down the stairs. Some kinda man he is.” She spat. Pausing for a moment. Pain in her eyes flickering beyond the tantrum, revealing something Arthur was hesitant to address in his mind. He’d notice over the past few months how often the two had been around one another. But, being who Karen was, in the most respectful manner he could think of, and being who Sean was, he didn’t imagine their relationship could escalate further than a couple midnight affairs every now and then. A bit surprised that there was more to it. Though also annoyed, given that Sean had put him right in the middle of it.

“That ain’t fair Karen, he had to keep the other girls safe too.” He said, in a weak attempt to defend the man, thought he couldn’t say whether or not that was true, given he hadn’t been there to see. Very much hoping he was right. Relieved as her expression faltered.

“And he’d’ve come back for ya, I’m sure of it. Only reason they sent me, ‘s cause I know the Sheriff.” He told her, voice soft, though lacking the convincing tone that came naturally to both Hosea and Dutch. Smiling innocently at her as she began to calm down. Attempting to make sense of it all. Huffing and sighing deeply before facing him again. Clearly, still upset, though she wasn’t about to go killing anyone.

“You two done?” Wykeham asked. Clearing his throat as he flicked his gaze between them. When no response was given he rolled his eyes and stood straight, “Deputy was pretty drunk. He arrested your girl here, then went straight on home to bed. He likely won’t remember, and if he does, I’ll tell him he must’ve dreamt it.” He told them. Stepping past Arthur, unlocking her cell. Watching warily as she stood beside the him. A look of apprehension riddled across her features. Scanning the older man up and down. Analyzing him, as if making a crucial observation.

“Why’re you helping us?” She questioned. Gravitating closer to Arthur, steadily moving behind him. As if afraid a fight would break out.

“‘Cause you’re young and stupid, and nobody got hurt. You got any other dumb questions to ask, or are y'all gonna get lost?” He barked, answer enough for Arthur who turned around. Ushering her through the door and into the main office. On their way out when Wykeham cleared his throat again. Causing him to pause and glance back at the man.

“Not that you’ll listen to me, but uh, try to stay outta trouble kid. More importantly...try to stay outta town.”

Arthur nodded, and just like that, they were gone. Mounting Boadicea and riding into the night. Unaware of Wykeham who’d stepped out on the porch to watch them. A look of dread, and perhaps sorrow very prominently displayed across his features. That kid was running on a road to nowhere fast. A situation he knew all too well. And given what else he knew, he was positive there was no way to break him from it. 

Though, for whatever it was worth, nothing could stop him from trying. 

  
  
  
  



	9. Desperadoes Waiting For a Train

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One word frees us all from the weight and pain of life; love.

Arthur hadn’t gotten much sleep. Not necessarily because of the constant bickering as soon as he’d arrived. Between Dutch and Ms. Grimshaw. Between Karen and Sean. Each pair attempting to stand as far away from camp as possible, though were within close enough proximity of Arthur’s tent for him to hear them nonetheless. Despite how much Dutch propagandized the gang being one happy family, there were fights, or rather, arguments frequently. Enough for it to not bother Arthur anymore. Enough for it to just drown out into white noise after a while. So sure, it was annoying, but that wasn’t why he couldn’t sleep.

He couldn’t exactly put his finger on it, but there was something in his stomach keeping him awake. Urging him not to fall asleep. An inclination of some kind. One that made him file through every memory and thought he had; trying to find the source of the premonition, though the harder he tried, the more his head began to throb. Partly, from the headache he’d acquired, and partly from the wound that had yet to heal entirely. It was infuriating. Because he was tired. Exhausted even, but despite the fact; every time he closed his eyelids, which at the moment felt like lead slabs, he was awakened by an inconsolable mind. 

It wasn’t until sunrise that he’d managed to doze off for a few minutes, though he was promptly awoken again, as his foot was kicked. Jolting him into consciousness, where he sat up on his cot, alert and prepared to fight, if need be. Instinct to grab his gun, though he paused when he saw Dutch. Relaxing for a moment. Lazy hand reaching up to rub his eyes. Red and baggy as they were; Dutch didn’t pause to ask him if he was feeling alright, as he likely would have normally. For he himself, hadn’t gotten much sleep either. Though for him, it was both anxiety, and the pressures of leadership. 

“Get up.” He said simply. Gesturing for Arthur to follow him as he began wandering away. Giving Arthur but a few moments to collect himself, feet slinging over the side of his bed. Head hung low for a minute or two. Dropping down between his knees as he’d begun to feel light headed. He sighed deeply. Still with that relentless headache. One that Arthur would wager was quite possibly more annoying that Micah’s voice. Though he’d never been all that good at betting.

He stumbled out wearily after Dutch. Rolling his shoulders back, twisting his torso. Stretching out his stiff joints and muscles. Eyes focusing and unfocusing randomly on the ground as he moved up beside the man. Thankful for the miscellaneous pine tree which he then leaned against. Arms crossing tightly over his chest. Breath coming out in faint white clouds. It was still a bit cold, which did nothing to aid in his toils, though Dutch didn’t seem to mind. Standing, hands on hips, gazing stoically over the edge of the overhang, which was too steep an incline to be considered a hill. 

“I need your help son.” He stated. Glancing over his shoulder at Arthur who nodded at him, eyes half closed. Chewing absentmindedly on his inner lip. Trying to keep himself awake as the man spoke.

“I’m askin’ you, because you know better than anyone, how much, I hate Colm. Other than Hosea, but you know what he’d say.” He paused, words growing harsher as they left him. Sharp and jagged as they lept from his tongue and into the air. Seemingly having realized as much as he breathed deeply, “If we run, if we move camp, pack everything, and just run...he’s bound to find us again. He always does.”

He turned now. Facing Arthur who stood up a bit straighter. Recognizing the seriousness of their discussion. Sympathetic expression flattening into a collection of monotone features. He didn’t want Dutch to think he was being pitied. Something he’d yelled at Arthur for, about a dozen times before. Though that was more or less how he handled the loss. Taking it out on those he cared about. Those he loved. Likely another reason John left. Couldn’t take Dutch being Dutch all the time. But Arthur didn’t mind. He knew the man didn’t mean anything by it. Didn’t mean it was right, but, still.

“It’s been four years. And I am tired, of letting that... _ monster... _ win. I can’t...keep letting him get away with what he did. It ain’t right.” He paused again, beginning to pace, “But...we got more folks to look after now than we did before. And I don’t know…” He stopped. Staring dead at the ground, eyes wide and vicious, “Arthur when I think about Colm O’Driscoll. When I think about what he did to...when I think about what he did, I lose my mind. I can’t think straight. And I know you and, and Hosea know that.”

He took a deep breath, facing Arthur once more. Arms crossing as he looked the boy straight in the eyes. A look of almost desperation on his face. As if he wanted Arthur to say something. Something specific. Something that would justify what he wanted to do. Mouth opening, then closing a number of times, shifting anxiously from foot to foot until finally clearing his throat.

“I want you, to decide. Hosea’s become a pacifist, and I know, no one else knows Colm like you. And me. But, I’m biased, and- look. I want you to chose. Should we run? Or should we fight?”

Needless to say, this was a lot to spring on a young, sleep deprived, migraine ridden, malnourished, and dehydrated outlaw, so it took a few minutes for him to respond. Quietly thinking over Dutch’s words. Hosea and him had long been at odd with this issue. 

Hosea believed fighting Colm, or rather, exacting vengeance, would be bad business. That it could only have negative tolls on Dutch and the camp. And though he was often the voice of reason, he hadn’t known Annabelle like Dutch had. He didn’t understand that pain. That loss. To him, Colm was just another outlaw, but what he didn’t understand, was that there was something more between him and Dutch. It wasn’t just a rivalry. It was a war. One in which neither would surrender, until the other had been wiped from the face of the Earth. So certainly, they could continue to bite the bullet, hoping eventually, they’d outrun the O’Driscolls, but Arthur knew better. Dutch was right, wherever they went, they’d be found. 

“Dutch, I...I don’t much like it. I’ve seen too many folks die, over this...feud you both got on. Good folks. But, I know, ain’t none of it gone end, till one o’ you gets the other, and I say, if he wants a fight, we ought to take it to him. I think you’re right. We been runnin’ too long.” He said, pausing multiple times, voice a bit slow and lagging. Very obviously tired. Too tired, to have this conversation at the moment, and he was really hoping he’d said the right thing, given that he was half-asleep and only half-aware of what he was saying at all. Mildly confused when Dutch grabbed him. For a moment, thinking he’d said something he shouldn’t have, though was relieve, albeit perplexed when he realized he was being hugged. An awkward, too-tight hug that lasted only a second or two, before Dutch stepped back. Each hand firm on either of Arthur’s shoulders.

“We’ll get him, son. For Annabelle. For John. For everyone...for everyone we’ve lost along the way.” He said. Soft, voice fading out as he spoke. Eyes glazed with something Arthur couldn’t recognize. Anger, fear, sadness. All mottle throughout dark irises. Each circulating in terms of prominence. Expression shifting, until finally it hardened. Hands absently patting Arthur’s shoulders, before the man walked briskly away. Leaving the boy to stare out after him. Eyes squinted at the light shining through the leaves above.

Dutch had never mentioned John like that. Like it had been Colm’s fault, him leaving. In fact, for a long time after John had gone, Dutch refused to even talk about it at all. Snapping at Arthur, telling him to shut up whenever he tried to ask. Hosea had never had much to say on the matter either, but even so, he just...couldn’t shake how much Dutch’s words made it sound as though John was dead.

 

*

 

“Clive!” Abigail called. Capturing the attention of the man who’d only just returned to camp after several days of absence. Eyes instantly flicking up to meet hers. Startled and worried until recognizing that nothing was wrong. Flashing a quick, soft, smile at her as she approached. Jack in her arms.

“Hey Abigail.” He murmured. Turning to face the woman, who looked very tired. Hair a ratted mess, tied up in a bun, loose strands sticking out here and there. Cheeks gaunt as if she hadn’t eaten in days. Blue eyes lacking the spark they’d once had. 

“Listen, I was...um...Jack, he’s growin’ fast, and uh, I...I haven’t had much time to go to town, and-and get him some new clothes. Especially with Dutch bein’ as protective...as he is. I was wonderin’ if you could...take us. Just..for a bit. I’m sure you’re real busy and all.” She rested Jack on her hip. Hand gesturing absentmindedly as she spoke. Arm reaching up to wipe the sweat beading on her forehead. Smearing a bit of dirt across it in the process. 

She was pale. Thin. Too thin, to be healthy. Washed up and weathered. To be quite frank, she looked horrible. And even if Clive didn’t have his morbid instinct to protect her; out of common human decency he’d have done just about anything for her anyway. 

Though this, this would be a particularly painful task. His son, had been about a year old. About the same age as Jack, when he’d lost him. He hadn’t dealt with babies much since, and to be quite honest, he was almost afraid to. Afraid he might break down and cry, or see that charred carcass in his arms when he knew it wasn’t really there. And he had no doubt Abigail found him a bit odd already; panicking in light of her infant child was likely something that would drive the last nail in the coffin for him. Though, by the looks of it, she was desperate. And, he couldn’t say ‘no’, even if he’d wanted to.

“Sure, Abigail, whatever you need.” He replied. Again with that smile. The one that spoke more than he ever would. A thousand words could never have even had the hope of expressing the misery that smile did. 

“Thank you,” She murmured. Gingerly laying Jack in his arms as she mounted his horse. Positioning herself as far forward in the saddle as she could. Glancing down at Clive who stared at Jack as if he were holding an angel. Proud and happy and yet utterly horrified. Something that didn’t worry her much as she figured it should have. She didn’t know much about Clive. No one really did, but the rumors had always been that his family was murdered. Something she figured justified, or rather, made up for his ambiguous aura. Hesitantly reaching out for Jack. Allowing Clive to savor the moment for just a bit longer before taking him in her arms. Swaddling him in her lap as Clive mounted up behind her. 

Paloma; his horse, was a black shire. Enormous and graceful. The perfect size for Clive who was an incredibly large man. A large man who, on Paloma, and in comparison, dwarfed Abigail. No one in their right mind would even think twice about going toe to toe with him. Nor harming Abigail. Not while he was around, which was partly why she’d asked. 

The other men were show boats, and weren’t exactly, sensitive. about her loss. She was young, and by nature quite beautiful. It didn’t matter that she had a son, or that she’d once been John’s woman. They liked her, in a way which made it difficult to ask for favours without the expectation of her payment being something of the romantic variety. With Clive it was different, his gestures, though kind, weren’t lust driven, or insincere. He was a kind, genuine man. 

Even if he was a killer. 

They rode quietly. Neither making a sound. From a distance, or in the dark, they may have seemed like ghosts. Deathly silent and expressionless. Both pale; depressive states spelling something eerie. The two did make quite a pair. Not exactly one in the same, but both were scarred and subdued beyond what their souls could take. Making them hollow. A bit calloused. Broken.

Though, despite common claim, two broken people rarely make a whole.

When they got to town, they weren’t given as many cock-eyed stares as Abigail was expecting. Usually small towns like this didn’t get many visitors. They were primarily made up of people who’d lived there for the entirety of their lives. However, she figured they must have become accustomed to visitors now, on account of how many they’d recently found themselves in the company of. What with the whole camp having run through here at one point or another, it seemed like.

It didn’t take long to locate the tailor; who also doubled as the town grocer. Smiling widely as the two stepped in. Each wary of the look in his eyes, which naturally, assumed they were husband and wife. Neither one exactly eager to correct him, however, for the fact that this was a town full of judgmental snobs, and an unwed couple with a baby was something to be shunned in these parts. Especially as dirty as they looked. At least now, this man likely assumed they were rural farmers or something of the like. 

“What can I do ya for?” The man questioned. Tilting his head and waving with one finger at Jack who bounced in Abigail’s arms. Legs kicking, fists flying out to his sides. Toothless grin producing slobber which dripped down his chin.

“Baby clothes.” She told him, setting the boy down on the counter. Glancing over her shoulder at Clive who’d begun wandering around the store. Spurs jingling as he moved; both a constant reminder, and reassurance that he was there. 

“‘Fraid we ain’t got many babies around. Not much clothes for ‘em neither. But we got some. He looks a bit big for what I got, but if I get some measurements, I can fit ‘em for ya.” He said, chuckling as Jack attempted to crawl across the counter. Stopped by his mother who had a firm grip on his torso. Lips pressed together as she listened to the man. She didn’t have much money. That which she did have, was an allowance granted to her by Dutch. Though given she more often than not was at camp, the amount was not very generous. Not that she had any right to complain. As far as she was concerned, she was dead weight to the gang. Unable to contribute. Suspecting that Dutch would have cast her out long ago, had it not been for Jack. A hurtful thought, though the demons in her head didn’t exactly know the meaning of kindness.

“I-I ain’t got much…” She murmured. Reaching down into her satchel. Retrieving five dollar bills and a few miscellaneous coins. Laying them on the counter, counting nervously and with shaking hands. Very aware of the expression on the clerk’s face. One of both pity and reluctance. 

“Don’t worry sister.” Clive said suddenly, “I ain’t gone let my nephew go bare.” Tossing a fifty dollar bill upon her measly sum. Clearing the air as to their relationship in the man’s eyes, whilst also providing ample means of payment. The clerk hesitated, glancing at Abigail who furrowed her brows, almost painfully. As if wishing she could say she could say ‘no’. That she couldn’t accept it. But she had to, and she hated being in people’s debt. Peering up at Clive pathetically, as he waved her off. Soft nod communicating that he didn’t mind.

“Well, set him over here. I’ll get my measuring tape.” The man told her, gesturing to a table at the far corner of the store. Sliding on his spectacles as he walked into the back. Giving her enough time to embrace Clive, much to his surprise. Tears pooling in her eyes. 

“Thank you.” She said, voice drawn down into almost a whimper. Face pressed against the man’s chest as he slowly wrapped an arm around her. Patting her back softly until she’d released him. Wiping away the tear that had begun rolling down her cheek before she picked up Jack and moved him. 

Abigail wasn’t typically an emotional woman. Life with the gang, and life with John had hardened her. Taught her to be tough and never let anyone take advantage of her. Meeting someone who had no intentions toward her, other than good ones, was something that was both rare and refreshing. Certainly, Arthur was similar, but...he was Arthur. He was practically her brother at this point. 

Besides; he had a reason to be kind to her, Clive didn’t.

 

*

 

“Alright everybody, listen up!” Arthur called out. Scanning the camp, fingers rested on his belt buckle as the masses gathered in. Taking a mental note of all those who were present. Attempting to ignore Karen and Sean who muttered angrily at one another. Sighing as everyone stood expectantly. Each irritated for one reason or another. Most tired. Though all attentive nonetheless. Given that a camp meeting usually meant something drastic was about to happen. Or already had, happened.

“Thank you Arthur.” Dutch murmured, stepping forward as the boy stepped back. Chewing on the tobacco in his cheek as the man spoke, “I know all of you have been hearing recently...about the O’Driscoll boys closing in. I know you’re all worried. Perhaps a bit afraid. And that’s ok, because soon enough, Colm O’Driscoll’s gonna be nothing but a distant memory.” He paused, allowing a few murmurs to distill through the crowd. Holding up his hands after a moment or two to recollect their attention. Nodding, as if understanding their concern. “Now I know, this has been a long time coming, and I know, some of you will be confused, but I have a plan. First, and foremost, on my mind, as always, is the safety of our camp members. I have decided, to send a party via train, out west to settle in a town called Candessa. The rest of us, will stay here, and kill Colm. Then, once the job is done, we will rendezvous, and go about business as usual. There are two lists! Each are hung up on my tent. To see which party you’re in, please, go read them.”

There was a long silence. One in which hesitant glances were exchanged. A few questions whispered amongst one another, before the group slowly drifted toward Dutch’s tent. Reading each list as he seated himself at the table beside Pearson’s cart. Joined momentarily by Bill, Javier, and Henry, who were all meant to stay for the O’Driscoll hunt. Each questioning what moves they would make and which steps would be taken in order to ensure both victory, and hopefully, little to no casualties. 

Hosea approached next, much to their surprise, to roll out a map. Sitting reluctantly amongst them, as was his new principle. If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em. He knew there was only so much he could do to put a leash Dutch. Only so much he could do to keep him at bay. This war was inevitable and he knew better than to stand in the way.

Arthur, in the meantime had gravitated to his tent. Hoping to get some sleep before things got too crazy. Dutch had planned to move everyone that night. Most of the women were going, he knew, but he hadn’t yet seen the lists. Either way, there was bound to be some scrambling. Noisy packing, and no doubt a number of complaints. Given that Dutch hadn’t exactly gotten anyone’s consent before making this plan. Though, ultimately, everyone would abide him without opposition. He was the boss after all. And what the boss says goes. 

It took him a long time to finally drift off. Eyelids fluttering shut. Laying dead weight on the cot beneath him. Feeling as though he hadn’t slept for weeks, though much to his vexation, it didn’t last long. He constantly woke up, only to doze off and wake up once more. Tossing and turning. Pressing his hands against his ears in an attempt to drown out any potential noise, however, nothing managed to help. Only further irritating him. 

One hour passed. Then two, and soon enough he found himself stumbling out of his tent. Begrudged and sleepy. Fingers rubbing hard against his temples. Bloodshot eyes scanning the camp slowly. As if expecting to see the source of his disturbance. He walked numbly toward Pearson’s cart, grabbing a drink and some biscuits. Thinking perhaps his irritation had been caused by a lack of nutrition. Seating himself as he ate, glancing around, watching the girls as they packed. Each muttering curses under their breaths, he could tell.  Obviously upset by the situation.

Especially Molly, who was well accustomed to a certain lifestyle. One her parents had funded for the majority of her life. Though, her pampered nature had been interrupted by her more prevalent instinct to rebel. Her sudden craving for adventure which had sent her to America, where she met a rather enticing man; a certain Dutch Van der Linde. Assuming she could seduce him in some way and maintain the persona she’d made up for herself in her head. Though, that hadn’t exactly worked out. Given that Dutch was entirely uninterested in her. Not for any fault of her own, but rather, Dutch had very particular interests. Interests no woman had managed yet to meet, except for Annabelle. Though, that had long since been over. 

The only reason Molly had even bothered sticking around, was because her parents had refused to take her back, and Dutch had offered for her to stay. So long as she performed chores of some kind. Which had been, up until recently, sewing clothing or blankets. Though her lack of skill had urged Ms. Grimshaw to assign her, instead to be Creed’s apprentice. An aspiring nurse. Though she wasn’t very good at that either, and often refused her duties. Something Dutch was likely talking with her about now. Or at least, he assumed, given her obvious aggravation. Normally, she was too refined to get aggravated. Only sticking her nose in the air and ignoring any problem cast her way. 

Though where Dutch was concerned, she’d be dead if she did that. 

Or gone. 

One or the other. 

However her primadonna-like disposition meant she was still a bit mouthy.  Too much so for Arthur’s taste which was why he never bothered engaging with her. Nor Tilly, who stood rather awkwardly behind the woman, holding her arm, head bowed, as if she were the one being yelled at. 

Arthur liked Tilly. She was a sweet girl, inherently. Always very kind and very considerate. Quiet, and distant, though an awfully beautiful and wonderful girl. 

But she was stupid as all hell. 

At least for the time being. Following Molly like she had anything to teach other than the many principles of laziness. But he supposed it was likely the way the woman acted like she was royalty. He could see how that would be alluring. After all, Dutch tended to act the same. Though mildly, and only really when he was trying to con someone or win an argument. Arthur almost envied her, in a way. Given that she was still oblivious and unconcerned by a lot. 

She was never out of camp much, and since they’d picked her up, as a runaway, her life had been one of ease. Much like his had been when at first he ran into Dutch. Reminiscent of those times; before Colm went crazy, Annabelle died, and John left them all wondering where the time had gone. 

The argument ended in the only way in which it could. Molly stomping off, followed by Tilly, and Dutch standing, hand on hip, pinching the bridge of his nose. It was incredible to Arthur, how much patience Dutch had. He usually abandoned conversations, or disagreements with Molly the second she brought up her parents, which was usually fairly early on in the discussion. 

He’d all but finished his food when Dutch began walking over. Weary looking, as if Molly had taken a decade off his life. Nodding slowly to Arthur as he seated himself across from the boy. Deep sigh escaping him. He was very obviously stressed about all this. Who wouldn’t be? Though Arthur figured most of it had to do with the abruptness of it all. He couldn’t fathom why Dutch was in such a rush. They could’ve waited a couple days more. 

“You doin’ alright?” He questioned. Almost sarcastically, because he already knew the answer.

“Never better.” Dutch responded. Cheap, fake smile flashing up at Arthur who nodded. 

“Hopefully all this goes okay. I’m sure you ‘an Hosea got everything locked down, but I dunno. Colm’s always been a wild card.” He said, finishing off the last of his biscuits. Chewing longer than he usually did, deep in thought. Thinking back on all the times Colm had surprised them, or caught them off guard. Bested them in the most unlikely of circumstances. The man was insane, but he was a master tactician. Though, that being said, he did tend to have the upper hand of miniature armies at his disposal. Dozens of men who’d follow him through anything. Stupid as they were.

Arthur knew Dutch once considered recruiting like Colm did, but refused on the basis of trust. He couldn't trust a man he didn’t know, and the way the O’Driscolls went through their members like they were a dime a dozen, he knew they wouldn’t be around long enough for him to get to know them. No, Dutch had principals.

“Speakin’ of.” Arthur said after a substantial pause, “What’s the plan? We gone go scoutin’? See what we can see? Lure ‘em out? What’re we doin’?”

There was another long silence, one in which Dutch glanced up at him hesitantly. A timid flicker in his eyes; weary expression growing ever more weary. He pursed his lips and for a moment, only a moment, he seemed angry. Not at Arthur, necessarily, rather, more so at himself he supposed. Gaze slowly gravitating down to the table as he said, “You aren’t coming.”

Arthur smiled. A smile of disbelief. A smile that almost questioned Dutch, asking him what the hell he was talking about. A smile that hoped he was kidding. Half chuckle passing through his lips as he mumbled, “What?”

Dutch sat up, no longer slouching. Expression shifting into one of authority. As if he’d regained his nerve or something. Peering over at the boy for a moment before grazing his teeth with his tongue and saying, “You’re not coming. You’re going with the ladies and Uncle out west.”

“The hell I am.” Arthur spat, smile slipping from his face, voice low and demanding. Raising to his feet, palms flat against the table. Leaning forward with an almost, animalistic glower. 

“Arthur I’m not going to argue with you. You’re not coming and that’s final.” He too stood, walking briskly back to his tent, as if running away. Ineffective and pointless, however as Arthur continued to pursue him. “Dutch, he’s got a damn army. We got what, twelve men, at best? You gone need every man you can get.” He huffed angrily, “This is Colm O’Driscoll Dutch…”

“I know, who it is.” He snapped. Growing more and more irritated by the second. But Arthur wouldn’t let up. He was just as entitled to revenge as Dutch was. He wasn’t the only one who loved Annabelle. He wasn’t the only one to have suffered at Colm’s hands. 

“You ain’t thinkin’ this through, Dutch. If he-”

“I said no, Arthur.” Dutch growled over his shoulder. Tone creeping into something familiar. Like how it use to be when Arthur was a kid. Young and stupid and wanting to go on missions far too dangerous for a fourteen year old. Or how he’d talk to him when he’d gone and done something foolish, like piss off Bill, or pull a prank on someone he knew better than to anger. It was patronizing and it made him feel small. Insignificant. Like he was useless or something.

“Why?” He questioned. Stomping after the man who, faster than he could register, spun around and slapped him. Backhanding him right across the face. Garnet ring scraping against his cheek, leaving a long red scrape. For a brief moment, Dutch almost looked more shocked than Arthur did. But that faded more quickly than it had appeared. Staring down the boy as he grabbed his face and rotated his jaw. Hateful eyes burning into Dutch’s.

“It doesn’t matter why. I said, you’re not coming. So you ain’t comin’. Now go pack your shit.” He growled. Turning abruptly, throwing the flaps of his tent open as he stepped inside. Leaving Arthur to stand, rigid and absolutely infuriated. Unable to move for the fear that he might kill someone. Standing frozen for a minute or so before glancing out at the rest of the camp, where everyone stood staring. All rigid, watching as if they’d never seen either man angry before.

“Whatchu lookin’ at?!” He barked, glaring at anyone who had the gaul to look him in the eye. Pausing when he saw Hosea, equally as shocked as the others. Closing the book he’d had in hand. Walking toward Arthur who’d spun around on his heels and made his way toward his tent. Furious and volatile as he violently began tossing things into his trunk. Unable to believe Dutch. Nor his decision. 

He wasn’t a kid anymore, he was a grown man. 

And he began wondering then, in spite of himself, when Dutch would begin to treat him like one.

 

*

 

After taking Jack’s measurements, the clerk had told Abigail that his clothes would be ready by the end of the day. Therefore, in the meantime, both her and Clive had wandered around a bit. Exploring the town, what little ground there was to cover, and making themselves familiar with a number of its residents. 

Clive wasn’t typically social. He much preferred blazing the lonesome trail, though, far be it from him to deny Abigail anything. 

She hadn’t been this close to civilization in what felt like, and very well may have been, years. For once, enjoying herself. In a way that made her quite happy. Something that in turn, made Clive happy. Willing to do anything to appease her. Bringing her to a show which had taken up just at the edge of town. A large tent full of folk with strange abilities and talents. 

Going so far as to take Jack and hold him when he got too fussy. Even taking the infant outside when he’d begun to cry, so that she could enjoy the show. Rocking the child in his arms. Refusing to look down at him, because he didn’t want to remember. He didn’t want to think about it. Instead scanning the horizon. Unable to shake the suspicion he felt at the two men who’d seemed to have followed them since they’d arrived. Perhaps deputies? Perhaps criminals. It didn’t matter. Either way, he didn’t like the look of them, and as soon as the show was over, they mounted up and rode home. Making several laps on previously unexplored trails before returning to camp. Just in case they’d been followed.

It was then that Abigail was made aware that they were moving. Told of Dutch’ plan by Mary-Beth who offered to watch Jack while she packed, as the others had already finished. Flustered, and bit angry, considering the abruptness of everything. It seemed as though she could never catch a break. If it wasn’t one thing, it was another, and it made her sick. 

She didn’t own a lot, and, neither did Jack, considering his age, and her lack of funds for toys and such. It didn’t take her long to have everything tucked away. Though as the other girls started heading out, she realized there wouldn’t be enough time for the tailor to have made Jack’s clothes. Not by then at least. She had to stay a while longer. Eventually wandering over to the lists put up on the side of Dutch’s tent. Surprised when she saw Arthur’s name amongst those who were to be going west. Supposing it was because he was a good shot. A very ample body guard if ever they needed one. 

“Arthur?” She questioned softly, approaching him slowly, taking into account his fatigued appearance. Sitting on his cot. Head bowed, as if dozing off, though as he turned to glance up at her, she could see that he was wide awake. Eyes very clearly craving sleep, though, she figured he was having another one of his restless nights. Hesitating when she saw the faint red welt on his cheek.

“What happened?” She asked. Waved off by the boy who rolled his eyes.

“Nothin’” He mutter, rising to his feet. Leaning against the ammo cart beside him as he looked her over, “What’d ya need Abigail?”

She clasped her hands in front of herself. Twisting her fingers as she continued to eye his face. Everyone else it camp seemed unscathed, and with his primary antagonist gone, she deduced that it must have been Dutch. After all, no one else could get away with smacking Arthur, unharmed. Obviously something serious was about to happen. Something she didn’t necessarily want to know about. 

Despite how little they spoke, and well, interacted in general, Arthur and Abigail were generally of the same mindset. Meaning if he was upset about something, enough to get slapped for, she knew she wouldn’t like it.

“Well, I went to town earlier today. With um, Clive. To get some clothes for Jack. But the tailor won’t be done with ‘em till late in the day. I was wondering if you could, uh, wait with me. I-I saw your name on the list, and I was hopin’ you wouldn’t mind takin’ me into town and all.”

There was a long pause. One which made her assume he was going to say ‘no’. Relieved by the sigh and nod which followed. “I’ll get some sleep then.” He told her. Wandering toward the medical tent. 

He normally wasn’t one to use opiods, given the number of friends, and acquaintances he’d seen succumb to their addictive properties, however he wasn’t confident he’d be able to get to sleep without an aid of some kind. Returning to his tend and drifting off. This time, for good.

In the meantime, Dutch had called Clive over. Filling him in on the plan thus far.

What he hadn’t told Arthur, or anyone who was leaving for that matter, was that they knew where Colm was. The day prior, when Javier, Henry, and Bill had been scouting out that house, on the way back, they’d stumbled upon an O'Driscoll camp. Saw Colm himself. The plan had been to attack him then, but with Hosea telling him to wait, Arthur missing, and Karen having been taken, Dutch had postponed their invasion.

The idea was to send six men to one side, six to the other, and flank them. Close in and make sure Colm did not escape. Though, of course, he’d have to scope out their camp himself first. Ascertain what kind of ground they’d be playing on, how many men. There were a number of factors that he had yet to analyze, though for the time being, that was the plan.

A stupid plan, as far as Clive was concerned. An offensive maneuver, in which they were outnumbered and outgunned was practically suicidal. He’d have pitched one of his own ideas, though at a time when Dutch was ruthlessly driven like this, he knew his words would be pointless. Wondering if perhaps that’s how Hosea felt. 

Clive had always respected Hosea. More so than Dutch truth be told, but Hosea didn’t run things. As much as Clive figured he should have. At least the man could keep a level head, and wasn’t entirely driven by guttural emotion.

By the time the sun had set, Karen, Mary-Beth, Jenny, Ms. Grimshaw, Reverend Swanson, Uncle, and Strauss had gone out. Far be it from the others to understand why Molly or Tilly were staying, but that was up to Dutch. 

Abigail, however had been waiting by her tent. Reading softly to Jack who’d long since fallen asleep. Peering up every so often to see if Arthur had yet awaken. And each time, he hadn’t. Growing a bit anxious as she stood and began to pace. She didn’t like to travel. Especially not with a baby, and especially not without protection. Certainly, Arthur was the best shot in camp, but not in his current state. Beat, tired, and likely unreliable. And heaven knew she was no good with a gun.

She’d started walking toward him once the moon had gotten high enough. Figuring it was now or never.

“Arthur.” She said, rocking him lightly at first. Gradually increasing the pace and intensity as he lie motionless. “Arthur.” She said again. Grabbing his collar. Lifting him up a bit, head drooping downward to the bed. Entirely passed out. Great. 

“Arthur!” She said once more. Shoving him this time, knocking his bed against the nightstand beside him. Rattling a bottle which then tipped over. She flicked her gaze to it and scoffed angrily. Opium. Great. He’d probably be out for a week on that stuff. Hand coming up to press against her forehead as she squeezed her eyes shut. Shaky breath slowly releasing from her as she stood, frustrated and irritated beyond belief. She glanced out at the men. Each doing what they did best. Drinking, lazing about, sleeping. Not one of them were reliable in the least. Well, except for Clive, who stood in a rather peacefully tranquility, leaning against a tree in the moonlight at the edge of camp. Haunted by ghosts which whispered in his ears. Taunted by faces and wicked smiles, though Abigail didn’t know that. 

Approaching him all the same.

“Clive?” She said gently. Bouncing Jack lightly in her arms as the man turned to her. Seemingly sobered from the daze he’d been lost in. Bags under his eyes, dark and intense. Gaunt, making him appear almost like a corpse. Dead, or dying. 

“Abigail.” He murmured, turning to her, hesitating to meet her gaze.

“C-can you take me into town? And...and then to the train station?” She questioned shyly. Timid, and angry at herself for having to trouble him like this. Twice in one day. She couldn’t stand it. Being helpless and at the mercy of the world most times. She wished she could be like Ms. Grimshaw. Or Sadie. But she didn’t have it in her. Her heart and her mind weren’t built like that. To be strong. Well, in the way they were. She was strong in her own right. Having gotten along without John. But if it came down to forgiving him, or trusting him again, she knew, like a fool, she would. Because she wasn’t strong enough to hate him. Strong enough to find any value in herself. And she couldn’t blame anyone for treating her like they did. Almost like a leper. 

“Sure.” He said, walking her toward the cart which was typically used for moving anything the camp used in abundance, such as food, or ammo. Loading up her belongings, then riding out. Smooth and slow, so not as to wake Jack. Quiet, as was the norm for them both. Each feeling a plethora of emotions. Emotions which secretly ate them alive. 

He couldn’t look at her. 

He couldn’t look at her because all he saw, was his wife. And when he glanced down into her arms all he could see was his son. His baby, who’d long since been gone. 

And Abigail couldn’t look at him. 

Because all she saw when she did, was John. 

Or at least, that’s what she wished she saw. 

By the time they’d made it to Maxwell, the town was just about ready to close up. The tailor himself had just stepped out onto his porch. Lighting up and beaming at Abigail who stepped down from the cart. Followed suit by Clive as the two entered the store. Collecting Jack’s clothes, which she tried on him first, before leaving. Ensuring Clive’s money hadn’t been wasted. 

They talked for a while. Her and the clerk. Each good natured, and fine tempered. Abigail was very fond of socializing. She loved talking, which came as a shock to most, given that at camp she was infamous for her silence. However, she often found she didn’t have much to talk about with anyone at camp. Unless it was about Jack. Or John.

Clive however, being the silent type he was, stood outside, tending the horses, eyeing two figures as they began strolling up carelessly. Dark, shady characters.The very same men from earlier in the day. Clive did not like the look of them. Stomach lurching, twisting in a knot as Abigail stepped outside the shop near on the other side of the road. Urging him to walk briskly toward her. Both pausing when one of the men called out.

“I though I recognized you. You’re Abigail? Aincha? John’s little whore?” 

She froze. Peering over at the man. Hugging Jack tight against her chest, where he cood and began to stir. Glancing worriedly at Clive, who resumed his trek. Encroaching slowly. Standing beside her as she gazed wide eyed at their aggressors. 

“Where is that sum bitch? Ain’t seen ‘im for a while. Matter fact, ain’t seen them other fools ya’ll run with neither. Y’all hidin’ from us?” He giggled sharply. A vile and tempestuous sound. “Don’t you worry, Colm’ll find y’all soon. String ya up. Beat ya like they did that last bitch.”

Both men stood side by side. Each drawing back their coats. Revealing the guns their hands then rested on. Each with a dauntless smile. Each begging to be shot. 

Clive all too prepared. Fingers resting on the hilt of his cattleman. Eyes wide and crazy. Recognizing the familiarity of the situation. Though not exactly the same as that day, the principle at all remained. His family was being threatened. Or well, rather, those he cared about. Twitching and jolting at the ghosts which nipped at him. Shouting at him, screaming at him. ‘Save us’, they cried. Save us, Save us, Save us. Their voices haunted him. Digging into him. Nestling into his chest where they suffocated him. Choking him, like he didn’t deserve to live. And he didn’t. He didn’t. After what he’d let happen. After what he’d been unable to prevent. He heard her in his ear. He could feel her hands on his shoulders. Listening as she told him time and time again, “Save me. Save me. Save me.”

He glanced back at her, glanced at the baby in her arms, the fear in her eyes. Heart running like a racehorse. Feet planting in the dirt. They’d come to kill her. They’d come to take her away from him again, but this time he wouldn’t let them. This time, they’d be the ones who burned. He’d kill them. He’d save her. He’d redeem himself. 

Three gunshots rang out through the air. One right on top of the other, so fast, that Abigail might not have even been able to count them. Save for the fact that two bodies crumpled lifelessly to the ground. Guns falling limp from their hands. 

Her eyes slowly wandered up Clive, who’d stepped in front of her. Awestruck where he stood. Frozen in place. Very gently shaking. Eyes still wide. Still crazed. Slowly holstering his gun. Standing in silence for several minutes; before gently helping her up onto the cart. Each shocked, and silent and unable to even register Jack who cried faintly in the background of their minds. 

Abigail trembled. Rocking subtly back and forth. Utterly terrified as they made their way to the train station. Listening to the horses hooves as they tapped across the dirt. Focusing on it, as if it was important. As if it was the only thing that could ground her. Lips parted, gaping, as she hadn’t even the faintest idea of what to think. What to say.

“Th-thank you.” She’d whispered, once they’d arrived. Stepping down from the cart so slowly and quietly, that to her it felt as though it had taken a day. Glancing up multiple times to Clive who simply nodded at her. Faint smile on his face as he reached into his satchel. Retrieving what must have been several hundred dollars in cash. 

“I can’t take that.” She’d told him. Soft and timid. Rattled and shaken by the experience, so much so, that she could barely stand up at all. Barely formulate the words with which to refuse him.

“Trust me.” He’d said, “I won’t need it. Take it.”

And so, with great hesitation, she did. Aided by the ticket clerk, aboard the train which had just come in. Unable to remove her eyes from Clive who couldn’t remove his eyes from her. He’d saved her life. And that didn’t fully register until the train whistle had blown, and they’d begun their journey down the tracks. Face pressed against the window. Wishing she could leap off and thank him again. Beg him to come with her because he made her feel safe. He made her feel happy. Entirely crushed as he faded from her sight. Holding tight to Jack as a tear ran down her cheek. 

Why can’t good things ever stay?

 


	10. Blood on The Moon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One word frees us from all the weight and pain of life; death.

Blood is a strange thing. Sometimes it looks so dark that it’s almost black, and sometimes it’s a red brighter than the skin of a freshly ripened apple. Sometimes it’s thin and watery, and drips quickly in long sprints. Other times, like now, it’s a thick and viscous ooze, seeping slowly from the wound. A small, but relentless flow of crimson. Pouring over his hand and sticking slick to his fingers. He glanced down numbly. It was red. Bright red, and he didn’t have to be a doctor to know that wasn’t good. He could feel it. Pulsing, dripping incredibly slow as if determined to keep it all inside of him. To keep him alive for just a few minutes more. He could see it, and he could almost hear it. How hard his heart was pumping. Trying to replace what had been lost. And yet, despite the never ending trickle of blood; he felt no pain.

It’s not that he was pain-tolerant, or just pain-resistant. 

Rather, he was pain-defiant. 

He wouldn’t allow himself to be debilitated. Wouldn’t stand for it. And so even if the pain receptors surrounding the newfound hole in his abdomen screamed in agony, he didn’t. And he wouldn’t. There wasn’t any point, and there wasn’t any dignity in it. He was going to die. He knew that well enough. At first, it hadn’t seemed so bad. That perhaps he might stand a chance of making it. Though as he grew wearier, tireder, hardly able to distinguish the raw landscape that strobed in and out of focus all around him; he knew it was over. There wasn’t any turning back now. 

Everything grew duller. 

Colour dripped and faded into vague shades of black and grey. He could hardly keep his eyes open. His head seemed to weigh a thousand pounds. All of it, every affliction, being a sure sign of death. But he couldn’t feel them. He wouldn’t feel them. And he couldn’t focus on them either. Rather, gazing up at the sky, watching the stars spin. He could hardly keep anything in focus. Hardly see, in general.

But by god, despite it all, did the moon look beautiful that night. 

 

*

 

It must have been about four in the morning. A year after Annabelle’s death. The four of them were holed up in a hotel on the outskirts of a town called Modesty. A sister, town; one of three. Constance, Modesty, and Patience. Each close enough to one another to be considered one giant city, but they’d been settled by three different rich protestants, and so despite the fact, they remained independent. 

The four of them; Dutch, Hosea, Arthur, and John, been separated from the rest of the gang, on account of bounty hunters. Since there weren’t really any prices on the ladies heads, Dutch and the others had run, leaving them to fend for themselves, which they were more than capable of doing. They’d all discussed this many times before. If ever they were separated, they’d all circle back to Gengly, a small rural plain on which there was an old confederate millionaire, with an enormous mansion. An absolutely insane confederate millionaire, who had provided the Van der Linde’s with sanctuary a number of times. And even if Dutch wasn’t fond of the man in the least, he hated the law more than Dutch did, and was willing to provide for them, if only to spite the government. 

However, it was too early yet to move. What with lawmen scouring every county in search of the four of them. And their accomplices, but the bounties had always been the biggest on them. So it was imperative they remained under the radar, so to speak. 

However, being the slippery little snake he was, Arthur couldn’t lie in wait. Though he’d always been loyal, and keen to follow orders, he’d never seen so many rich folk collected in one place. And he figured now that he had a little scruff on his jaw, those baby faced wanted posters wouldn’t do his new manly facade justice. He hadn’t had the chance to prove himself, of late. 

Though he was fairly useful in a fight, he’d never really picked up on the art of the con. He’d always figured he was too stupid, given that he hadn’t even learned how to read until Dutch had taught him when he’d first men the man at the ripe age of twelve. Not to mention how unskilled he was with the use of words. Though if there was anything he could do, in the efforts of cheating people, it was pick-pocketing. A skill he’d developed long before running into Dutch, Hosea, and John. That’s how he’d scraped by after his father had gotten hung. 

It was four in the morning when he slipped out. Most folk in town were religious, and in being so, they got up early for one reason or another. Something Arthur couldn't fathom, but it worked out for him. Given that even if Dutch was normally an early riser, he didn’t get up until six. Leaving Arthur with two hours to scope out and steal from as many rich folk as he could. 

He started in the shops. All rather crowded, as it was a Saturday, and most everyone was getting their chores done. Meaning shopping and such. 

It wasn’t hard. These people were trusting. Didn’t give him any cross looks or suspicious glares, which most people usually did. It almost made him feel guilty. It usually didn’t bother him, stealing from the snobby neuvoriche that didn’t have time for a dirty, rotten youth like himself. All snooty and hoity-toity. But these people weren’t looking down on him. At least, for the most part, and so he started gravitating toward the pockets which glared at him. 

His score in total, after about an hour, had been something like a hundred and thirty dollars. Not bad, considering the measly sum he’d usually have by the end of a run in Cattlena, the town he use to live in. A dirty cattle town which he did not miss in the slightest.

Everything seemed to be going fine. In fact, he’d even stopped to buy himself a treat for doing so well. Slipping into the nearest bar to get a bottle of whiskey. And some rum, for Dutch and Hosea, who favoured it. Something like an I-told-you-so, gift. He was useful in more ways than one. Something he had yet to convince them of. He could fight sure, but he could be quick with his hands, too if need be. 

It wasn’t until he was standing practically nose to nose with the police officer behind him, that he realized perhaps he hadn’t been as stealthy as he thought. Attempting to side step past the man, though stopped by the baton which had been thrust against his chest. Leaving him to stand still, dully aware of two more officers standing beside the entrance. There was a tense silence. One in which all conversation and quiet murmurs had died down. Even the pianist had ceased to play. Waiting in anticipation as the officer in front of Arthur pulled a piece of paper from his breast pockets. Unfolding it with one hand. Holding it up beside the boy’s face.

“Arthur Morgan.” He’d said. Simple, tone even, as if he caught wanted outlaws every other day of the week. Unbothered, and seemingly unfazed by the numerous crimes by which Arthur was wanted. Monotone expression intimidating Arthur probably more than a sneer would have. Though, that’s not to say that he was scared of the man. He had yet to meet a man he was scared of.

“Y’all want some drinks?” He’d questioned nervously. Stupidly. Earning him a snort and chuckle from the two officers behind the lead one. Though no one moved. That is until he caught a glimpse of a certain raven haired man behind them through the window. For a moment, more frightened of being caught by Dutch than the police. Turning and vaulting over the counter before anyone could stop him. Bolting out the back door and into the arms of two more officers. 

“How has someone with such a high bounty, and such a low intellect, not managed to be caught yet?” One remarked, low grunts and groans escaping him as he attempted to hold Arthur still. The other reaching down for the cuffs on his belt. Shrugging casually.

“Seems like it’s always that way huh.” He murmured. Unlinking the cuffs which he then attempted to work onto Arthur’s wrists. Though was unable to, as the boy had rocketed his head back into the other officer’s face. For a moment, breaking free, kicking the other against the wall and sprinting down the alley. Juking another officer who’d made his way around. Fast and nimble, though quickly running out of steam as he zigzagged down street after street; until he’d found himself out of breath and entirely lost. Crouching behind a collection of boxes and garbage tins. Attempting a number of times to sneak past the officers he watched constantly pace the street beyond, though unable to. Panicking because he knew if he wasn’t back at the hotel soon, Dutch would be worried. And given the abundant patrolmen out, he’d know Arthur had gone and done something foolish. Scolding himself because he really was stupid wasn’t he. 

He must have fallen asleep for a number of hours, because when he woke, he found himself surrounded by darkness. Gazing up at the sky, finding a collection of stars twinkling down at him. Moon full and speaking something ominous. It was now or never, he figured. Rummaging through the trash until he’d found an old coat with which to shield his identity. Pulling up the hood, walking slowly and away from the light posts lining the streets. Crossing and then crossing again whenever he saw an officer. Careful and very aware of his surroundings. Actually a bit proud of himself for how good he was at hiding and sulking in the dark. Expecting a warm albeit, worried welcome when he’d stepped through the door, into their hotel room. A foolish expectation, really, but he had yet to realize that. 

Three pairs of eyes instantly flicking up to meet his own as he dropped the hood and jacket as if for a dramatic reveal. Standing quietly as they all stared at him. John was the first to move. Standing and rushing up to him. Hugging him, without a word. Hosea, meanwhile sat on the end of his bed. Hands reaching up to cover his face as he sighed with relief. Head hung after a moment. Fingers rubbing roughly at the base of his neck. 

However, Dutch was the one Arthur couldn’t take his eyes off of. Tensing and even shrinking a bit as he stood, “What the hell is wrong with you.” He growled. Voice low and absolutely horrifying. Shrewd glare burning holes into Arthur’s eyes causing him to cast his gaze to the floor. Slowly pushing John away because he knew what was coming. They all did. 

“I asked you a question, son.” He barked. Creeping slowly forward. Footsteps loud and thunderous in Arthur’s ears. Almost eliciting a jolt as he closed the gap. 

“Answer me!” He shouted. Looking down at Arthur who didn’t know what to say. Sorry wouldn't cut it at this point, and he knew if he attempted to justify himself, no good would come of that either. However, he also knew he wouldn’t be able to get away with saying nothing.

“‘M sorry, Dutch.” He’d murmured numbly. Daring a glance at the man who slapped him hard enough to send him to the floor. Falling and collapsing against the wood below. Eyes fixed to the ground as Dutch muttered, “You’re sorry.”

He paced slowly. Occasionally glaring down at Arthur as he spoke, “What part of keepin’ a low profile, do you not understand? Huh?”

He paused crouching, tilting the boy’s head up roughly. Forcing them to make eye contact. Forcing Arthur to see the disappointment in his eyes.

“Now Arthur, I know, you’re not stupid. And I know, you can speak. So answer me!” He yelled, slapping him again. This time, splitting his lip open. 

There was always something more insulting about being slapped. Something aggravating about it. Patronizing in a way. As if he wasn’t enough of a man yet to withstand a punch. He almost preferred that. A punch. At least then it wasn’t so degrading. Women get slapped. When they get too mouthy, or do something foolish. 

Men get punched, and somehow he knew that was part of Dutch’s game. He’d never said it outright, but in disciplining him in this way, he figured he was attempting to teach him something. By slapping him, rather than actually hitting him. Or maybe that’s just how he justified it. Because once it’s over, all that’s left is a red mark that fades after only a day or so. Not nearly as violent as a punch or a kick, or anything that would leave a bruise. As those take much longer to fade.

“I dunno.” Arthur managed to sputter out. Angry and confused, because he already knew better than to do what he’d done again. The experience itself had been scary enough. He didn’t need to get beat for it too.

“Son you’ve got about three seconds to come up with a better excuse than, ‘I don’t know.’” He snarled, hoisting Arthur up to his feet. Holding him by his collar as he awaited a response. Glaring at Arthur who didn’t know what to say. How to win, in this situation, and when he realized he couldn’t he wondered if maybe that was the lesson. That you can’t always win. However he’d already known that, and for some time by now, so that couldn’t be it.

“‘M sorry Dutch, I-”

Dutch threw him to the ground again. This time stomping across the room. Grabbing the belt which lay on his bed. Returning with it wrapped around his fist. Buckle clamp resting over his knuckles. Holding Arthur by his collar again as he punched him in the nose. Almost hard enough to break it. But he was holding back, Arthur could tell. Though he didn’t look it, Dutch had the ability to knock a man out cold in one punch.

“Did I ask if you were sorry!?” He questioned, Fist held at his side. Threatening, taunting Arthur who stared at it. 

“Dutch, I-”

He punched him again, “Did I ask if you were sorry!?”

“No…” He murmured. Flinching as the man mocked another punch. Hesitating, an almost guilty look in his eyes. Breathing hard, chest heaving. Shaking Arthur with one hand as if it would supply an answer. Glare slowly softening as he took into account the blood dripping from Arthur’s nose and lip. The scowl and hurt framing the boy’s features. Huffing loudly as he released him. Standing as he tossed the belt onto his bed. Glancing down, eyes pausing when he saw the crimson streaks which stained his hand. Left to peer absently around the room at John and Hosea, who’d only watch in silence. Each staring at him as if they hardly recognized him. 

“‘M going for a smoke.” He said, stepping beyond the door.

Once gone, and they’d all heard his ruthless stomping down the steps, John moved to help Arthur up. Shrugged off by the boy as he sat in one of the chairs surrounding the table in the center of the room. Sniffing angrily as Hosea returned from the kitchen with a bowl of water and a rag. Cleaning off Arthur’s face as he glared out the window. 

“He’s not angry with you.” Hosea murmured. Dabbing lightly at the blood dripping down his chin. Shaking his head as if he disapproved.

“Sure felt like it.” Arthur growled. Scratching at his jaw. Stretching his face, and groaning at the throbbing pain in his nose.

“Arthur, how it feels, and how it is, are two different things. He’s not angry at you, he’s angry at what you did. Or rather, the situation I suppose. He just don't know how to handle it right.”

Arthur glanced at him. Furrowing his brows. Unsure how Hosea could possibly justify Dutch’s actions.

“Y’know when we found you, Arthur, you were just a kid. A small time thief in a world of bigger men with bigger crimes. Back then, if the law’d have found you, or caught you in the act, they’d have been lenient. Maybe have even let you go. But you’re gettin’ to be a man now. And you’re gettin’ into a man’s kind of trouble. That’s scary. For all of us.” He gestured to John, as if to illustrate his point. Tiling Arthur’s head back as he handed him the rag to stop the bleeding. A faithful wisdom in his eyes. Though Arthur wouldn’t meet them, because he knew the instant he did, he’d understand. Maybe even stop hating Dutch as much as he did in that moment.

“All anger is born of fear, son. Fear of pain, fear of loneliness, fear of loss. When Dutch gets like that...when he’s mean, it ain’t on account of him being cruel. It’s on account of him being scared. We didn’t know where you were. And suddenly there’s lawmen all over the city.” He paused, timid glance meeting Arthur’s gaze, as if afraid of his own words, “You could have died, Arthur.”

There was a long silence. One in which Hosea gave him a reassuring squeeze on the shoulder, before walking off to bed. It was late, after all, and given Arthur’s recent escapade, they’d have to move in the morning. Where, he didn’t exactly know, and he was sure everyone would be grumpy on account of it, but it wasn’t exactly like he could go back in time and change what he’d done. All he could do was be sorry.

“Arthur I know it don’t make sense, but Dutch does a lot with the best intentions in mind.” John told him. Face blurring for a moment as he added, “That’s probably why he wants you to go out west with the others.”

Arthur furrowed his brows. Glancing at John. Hesitant to ask him what he meant. Confused and utterly perplexed. Even more so, when he blink and John had disappeared. Suddenly, and yet gradually, the room began to shift. Memory fading as he felt himself being shaken. Mind slowly running back to his body as he heard a voice calling out to him. Unsure which reality was which as he faded back and forth. Unable to open his eyes or mouth or do anything but listen to that gargled voice, speaking gibberish in his ear.

He didn’t know that it was Hosea, come to tell him that he was supposed to have left with the others hours ago. He didn’t know that he was being shaken. Or that his lips had turned blue and that his skin had become cold and clammy. That he was trembling or in the process of having a mild seizure. 

The bottle had, had instructions on it, but damn if Arthur understood them.

“Arthur! Arthur, wake up!” He said. Watching, horrified as the boy’s eyes rolled back into his head. Breath escaping him in a wheeze, until he’d stopped breathing altogether. Hosea dropped him slowly. Gazing wide eyed, panicked and discombobulated. Flicking his eyes around frantically. Almost everyone was asleep. Save for Dutch who was sulking beyond the edge of camp, and Javier who was playing his guitar and singing by the fire. He stood quickly, near sprinting toward Dutch, terrified and distraught.

“Dutch, Dutch…” He panted; out of breath. Pointing aimlessly in the direction of Arthur’s tent.

“What’s wrong?” The man questioned, turning to his second in command, whose face had lost all its colour. Pale and lifeless and hysterical. Dutch’s brows furrowed; almost more amused than he was worried, for the fact that Hosea was normally the calm during the storm. Practically nothing could rattle him. 

“He’s not breathing.” He sputtered, wide eyes beyond mortified.

“Who? Hosea what are you talking about?” Dutch questioned, trying to ground the man with the small gestures he made with his hands. Non-verbally telling him to calm down.

“Arthur.” He said breathlessly. Almost irritated at that Dutch hadn’t caught on sooner. Who else could he have been talking about? 

The shift was instantaneous. Without a moment of hesitation Dutch sprinted to Creed’s tent, rousing the man, who in turn woke his protege, before booking it to Arthur’s tent. Staring down at his expressionless face, entirely mystified until his eyes made contact with the bottle beside him.

“Goddammit Arthur, how much did you take?” Dutch questioned pointlessly, shouting after Creed to come faster. Watching the man approach, both groggy and confused. Seemingly sobered by the sight of Arthur’s motionless body. Kneeling beside him, pressing two fingers to his carotid artery. Sighing when he didn’t feel a pulse. Glancing over his shoulder at the others as he began chest compressions. Counting roughly under his breath as everyone looked on in awe.

“What happened?” Molly questioned, standing behind Dutch and Hosea who each gave her a patronizing glare. Why Creed had bothered to wake her up was a mystery. She was practically useless anyway.

“Overdose.” Creed murmured. Tilting his head toward the bottle, “Told me he couldn't sleep. Didn’t imagine, he’d drink the whole thing.”

“How much was in it?” Hosea asked, peering over his shoulder at Arthur who still lay unmoved.

“Enough for him to overdose on.” He replied.

Several minutes passed. Several painfully long minutes, which dragged on and on, draining each of them until finally, Arthur’s eyes had opened and he’d shot straight up. Coughing wickedly, faint pink froth spitting out onto the dirt. Inhaling hard and deep, though seemingly unfazed. Merely inconvenienced. Glancing up at everyone, dumbfounded, and if he couldn't understand why they were all staring at him. 

“Wha’?” He murmured, half-slurred speech sounding more like a foreign language than his ever iconic southern drawl. Squinting at blurred faces of relief. Dizzy, and unable to feel it as he gently rocked back and forth, subconsciously. 

“Arthur what in God’s name were you thinkin?!” Dutch shouted, furrowing his brows as the boy stared blankly at him. Laying back down after a moment, as if he hadn’t said anything at all.

“He won’t be much use for a while.” Creed told him, “Usually folks are fairly debilitated after an experience like this. He’s lucky. By all accounts he should be dead.” He sighed heavily and stood, gesturing for Molly to follow him as he wandered back to his tent. “I’ll be back.” He told them, then explaining to Molly what he’d done and why. Not that she was listening. 

“Arthur, you dumb fool.” Dutch grimaced, pinching the bridge of his nose, arms crossing. Listening to the quiet, shallow, murmuring the boy expended. Almost closer to humming, or fainting singing than words. Glancing at Hosea, who stood beside him. Alert, though something about him seemed off. It seemed as though he was staring down at Arthur, but there was a lostness in his eyes. Something vague and hard to make out. Something troubling, though not more so that Arthur’s condition.  

“I thought you knew how to read.” Dutch muttered. Peering down at his son, who’d begun to fall asleep. Jolting himself awake whenever he’d begun to doze off. Saying something, quiet and low, under his breath, but whatever it was, neither man could make it out. 

When Creed returned, he had a black substance in his hand. One which he attempted multiple times to administer to Arthur, though he refused, pressing his lips together and protesting weakly.

“What is that?” Dutch questioned, attempting to aid the man by  holding Arthur down.

“Charcoal.” He replied, “Should absorb some of the opium. Bring him out of it a bit. If, we can get him to eat it.”

Many failed attempts of trial and error later, and Arthur was rolling his tongue around his mouth, disgusted expression on his face. Lips and teeth black as Creed attempted to help him wash it down with some water. Repeating over and over again that it would make him feel better, but much like a child with a cold, Arthur refused to take his medicine. Creed knew it was because of the delirium, and was patient enough, though Dutch was about an inch away from yelling at him. Worried and aggravated. Pacing outside his tent while Hosea sat nearby. Writing in his journal. Despite the commotion, the camp was relatively quiet. Charles and Henry had awoken to Dutch’s yelling, and concern in regards to Arthur, but each had fallen back asleep with relative ease.

After his work was done, Creed retired to his tent. Continuing in his attempt to teach Molly something, but she was far too distracted to care. Hosea too, had gone back to his tent. And Javier as well. Everyone was asleep it seemed, apart from Dutch, who sat in a chair beside Arthur. Staring at him. Almost wondering if he’d done it on purpose, so that he wouldn’t have to go west with the others. Though he banished that thought quickly from his mind because Arthur wasn’t that smart, or rather, he wasn’t that stupid. 

“You were suppose to go with Abigail.” Dutch grumbled. Eyes narrowing into a glare. Arms crossed over his chest as he propped his feet up on Arthur’s cot. Sighing deeply as no responce was given. Not that he was expecting one. For several minutes he sat. Head flung back against his seat. Eyes closed at he rested, until sitting up when it occurred to him that Abigail had left some time ago with Clive. Standing when he realized the man had not yet returned. Wandering aimlessly around the camp. Searching for him. Peering into his tent, though finding nothing. For moment he stood, hands on hips, perplexed. Wondering if as much time as he figured had passed. Both relieved and a bit surprised by the cart he saw slowly pulling up the hill. A cart which he recognized as the one the camp used for transporting goods. Stepping slowly out, arms crossed as it came to a stop beside Pearson’s wagon. 

“I was just lookin’ for ya.” Dutch said. Peering up at the man, smile fading as he slumped over and fell. Thudding against the dirt loudly. Loud enough for Creed to peek his head out from his tent. Rushing out to help the man, whose hand gripped tightly to his abdomen. Fingers digging into his cotton shirt, which in the campfire glow was very obviously drenched in red. His skin was white. Milky white. As if there wasn’t any life in it. Creed fell to his knees beside the man, removing his hand and pulling open his shirt to reveal the wound. Grim frown on his face as he glanced up at Dutch.

“It’s his liver.” He said, dark tone lowering, insinuating something that made Dutch nod softly. Kneeling beside Clive, who coughed, spitting up blood and staring wide eyed up at the sky. Small smile curled up onto his lips.

“Clive, where is Abigail?” The man questioned, hand resting on the man’s shoulder, capturing his attention as he slowly turned his head to face him.

“Safe.” He replied quietly, half gargled as he coughed once more. Still with that smile. Glancing down at his wound, thumbing at it gently. Half-choked laugh escaping him. Tears dripping down the side of his temples as he grinned at the sky. Shaking coldly as he grabbed onto Dutch’s arm. Tugging lightly on his sleeve.

“I-I saved her.” He told him, “I-I saved them.”

A loud sob emanated from his lips. A sob of joy. A sob of disbelief. As if he couldn't fathom it. Laughing in a way Dutch had never heard before. Joyous in a way in which he hadn’t been for several years. Since at first he’d failed. As a man. As a father. He’d redeemed himself. He had finally paid his dues. And nothing could have made him happier. 

“I saved them.” He said once more. Light slowly fading from his eyes. Soul slowly flickering out. Body gradually growing limp, until there was nothing left, but that smile. Both men stared down at him. Unsure what to do, or what to say. Numb, for what seemed like hours. Watching as the last of his blood dripped out onto the dirt. Staining it, forever reminding the Earth that he had once been there. That he had died there. 

And as the stars gazed down upon his crimson flesh,

The night itself seemed to smile.

Clouds parting to make way for him, and his ghosts.

And the moon had never looked more full.

 


	11. Red Headed Stranger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If one does not know to which port one is sailing, no wind is favorable.

The Sheriff may have been his grandfather, but that didn’t mean he was exempt from any punishments in regards to his job, as a Deputy. He had to prove himself and climb the ladder of authority one rung at a time just like everyone else. Even if it had taken him twice as long. Not only because he was family, and the Sheriff was thus, twice as hard, but also, because unfortunately, he was a tad slow. Plagued by social awkwardness and perpetual cowardice. That, being the cause of his predicament. 

He was lucky he hadn’t been suspended. Or arrested. Especially given that the governor himself had been on his way down from his fastidious mansion in the hills to gloat about the effectiveness of his police force. About how they’d caught and were bound to incarcerate one of the most notorious criminals in the state. A man who had been charged with multiple counts of murder, theft, arson, fraud, impersonating an officer, armed robbery, and countless other offences. Sure to be hung, or at the very least used as bait to lure in the other degenerate scum he ran with. A certain delinquent who had been wreaking havoc all across the country. A certain felon. A felon by the name of Arthur Morgan, who he admitted to letting go in exchange for his life. 

An act of cowardice and idiocy, his Grandfather had told him. Cursing him and telling him that he was a stain on the great name of his family. That he squandered the value of his legacy, and that he’d never amount to anything. Just like his father, who’d hung for cattle robbery. Something he’d never quite seen as just, for the fact that the cattle had first been stolen from him. Though as the town idiot, no one was inclined believe him. No, Hugh Wiser, his father, had always been seen as the lesser version of his own father, Grant Wiser, who’d held the utmost respect of anyone in his family. Well known and well regarded. Hugh, had been a bit of a merry drunkard, and occasionally gambler. A simpleton at best. It had been Grant’s hope, that his grandson Jake Wiser would return the family to glory. 

Unfortunately that seemed too difficult a task. 

Grant would have arrested him, maybe even hung him, on basic instinct. However; though he was stone faced and mean and a force to be reckoned with, he wasn’t heartless, and he wasn’t merciless. And especially where his grandson was concerned, he was a bit soft. Sympathetic for the fact that his absent and misguided parenting led the boy to be saddled with an unfit, unprepared father, with no future, or hope to boot. Regretful, and as compassionate as he could be in his line of work. Rather, sending Jake to the only place he knew he could. Given the lack of crime rate, and general pleasantness of it. 

A place far enough away to keep him out of trouble, and of course the limelight of humiliation. 

A place called Maxwell.

 

*

 

“So you’re from Jamestown huh?” The man questioned, glossing over the brief letter he’d been handed. Eyes caught by a number of crude phrases, “insubordinate”, for one, and “cowardly” for another. As if he didn’t already have enough of that from Junior and his cousins. Though as he glanced the man over, he didn’t seem too particularly troublesome. Scared and apprehensive, he could tell, but he wouldn’t use the word, “insubordinate” to describe him. Though that remained to be seen. The bottom of the letter had a signature from the governor, which spoke more about him than his dull presentation and standoffish attitude. It proved that he was protected enough to retain his job, and yet, he’d done something bad enough for the governor to sign off on his leaving. No idiot would leave Jamestown of his own accord, and if you were to leave, it was because you were forced to. That’s just how it was, and everyone knew that.

“Yes, sir.” The man replied. Followed by a clammy and soft handshake. One Wickham decided not to judge too harshly. Not yet. Kid seemed to be up to snuff, and at the bare minimum, capable of wandering the streets, keeping folks out of trouble. Though there wasn’t much trouble in Maxwell to begin with. Likely why they’d sent him there. 

“You got some friends in high places?” He questioned next. Tossing the letter onto his desk as he crossed his arms and looked the man over again. Causing him to nervously shift from foot to foot.

“My uh, Grandfather’s the Sheriff in Jamestown. Grant Wiser. You know him?”

His voice was quiet. Smooth though unfathomably anxious. Cowardice was certainly a trait this man exuded. He’d keep that in mind, but it didn’t exactly seem of utmost importance. Given again, that, nothing ever happened in Maxwell. Most exciting thing that ever did happen, was when Arthur and his friends rolled into town. 

“Yeah, I know him. Got a reputation. A strong man from what I hear. And I’m sure, given your relations, he was fairly lenient with you. I’d pretend to be a hard-ass and tell you, you won’t get away with that here, but uh, just about all this town’s lawmen are scum or sniveling babies… or both. So I suppose as long as you do what I say, things’ll be alright. Keep away from Junior, big stupid son of a bitch, you’ll know him when you see him. He’s a deputy, but he ain’t a good one. Quick to anger, and very easily made jealous. As of now, you’re my second in command, given that his idiot cousin Ruben shot himself in the foot two days ago. He’ll be out for a while. Though I’ll likely keep you in his position on account of me not being able to stand his company. You seem quiet. I hope you are. I don’t like loud mouths, and I don’t like cocksure simpletons. You square?”

He stood for several moments with a dumb look on his face. Staring at the man as if he hadn’t heard a single thing he said. Frozen and perhaps shocked by Wickham’s blunt attitude. He nodded slowly. Arms held behind his back. Posture slouching submissively. Jack would certainly have his hands full now. Nincompoops and halfwits as far as the eye could see.

 

*

 

Dutch had spent the better part of the night at Arthur’s bedside. Reading, or at times muttering under his breath at how stupid the kid was. An ignoramus, though it’s not like he could help it. Arthur hadn’t had the opportunity to learn things in the way Dutch had; something the man often neglected to consider. Though Arthur could read people and situations, and he knew exactly how and when to talk under any given circumstances; when it came to seemingly simple things, like reading or measurements, he more often than not lacked a certain intellect. And given his pride, and perpetual resilience, he was too confident to ask how much five hundred milligrams was. If he had, he’d have known it was significantly less than the amount he’d ingested. He supposed that was his own fault. Perhaps if he didn’t tease Arthur on his lack of knowledge as often as he did, he wouldn’t be demeaned by asking. However, he still couldn’t help but be grateful that things had ended up the way they had. For if Arthur had gone with Abigail, he may have suffered the same fate as Clive. And whether or not the pain or anguish was comparable in any way, at least Arthur was alive.

By morning, he was exhausted. Watching the sun rise inch by inch across the sky, until another had awoken to take his place. He traded off with Bill, who’d keep an eye on him for if not the rest of the day, most of it. He then, in turn, wandered wearily into his tent and fell asleep. Positioning himself and his bed, just so, in a way that, when he woke, he’d be able to see Arthur through the flaps. Or at the least, Bill’s back. 

Creed had taken Clive’s body to his tent. Laid along the side of it, so that he could tend to it in the morning. Far too fatigued to clean and prepare it, as he would, for burial. They still had yet to discuss, where, his body should be taken. Perhaps into town. Give him a civilized funeral. Or an unmarked grave on a hill, as was the usual. Surely, he deserved more than that, but they were limited on options. However, he didn’t have any time to think about it, or rather, he wouldn’t devote any, to thinking about it, for he feared if he did, he wouldn’t be able to sleep. Drifting off numbly as he lay on his cot. Five feet from a corpse he’d once considered his friend. Separated only by the tent wall, and the dark. 

Needless to say, Tilly nearly jumped out of her skin when she woke in the middle of the night, craving a drink of water. Stepping from her tent, only to find a strange silhouette lain on the ground. Tip toeing toward it, assuming it was one of the men who’d had too much to drink. Screaming quite loudly when she saw that it was Clive, dead eyes staring up at the moon. Blood smeared across his face. A false alarm as far as everyone was concerned, but Tilly couldn’t help but be afraid. Of what, she wasn’t sure, but seeing Clive like that. Dead, and cold, and pale, it made something in her tense up. Stop working. And she couldn’t go back to sleep even if she tried. And even if Molly had told her to. 

That morning, everyone was sluggish to wake. Mostly for the commotion of that night, and the grief that now struck them. One of their own, gunned down. Killed. Murdered. And no one had to think too hard, to figure out who had pulled the trigger. Colm O'driscoll. Perhaps not directly, but one of his goons. Without a doubt. He was a martyr now, for Dutch’s cause, and though it hadn’t exactly needed one, everyone was much more supportive of his plan. After all, it could have been Abigail, or God forbid it, Jack. The weakest and frailest among them. A child, whom they all knew Colm would have no issue in slaughtering. He was twisted and cruel, and now he had made it personal. For all of them.

“I can’t believe he’s gone.” Javier murmured, glancing to the corpse which had been laid out on a tarp. In the process of being cleaned by Creed, who wore arm length rubber gloves. Grieved by his work and very obviously struggling to perform his duty. “I mean, he was always quiet, and I didn’t know much about him, but, he just seemed kind of...invincible.”

He took a quick swig of whiskey before passing the bottle to Sean, who also watched Clive. Most of them were. A bit dumbfounded, and confused. He didn’t seem like the kind of guy to go down like that. He’d survived a whole lot of hell. Dying from a single bullet wound didn’t seem, dramatic, or, quite loud enough. It didn’t match his personality. Nor give him much of a legacy. 

“Colm will pay for this.” Charles said, shaking his head. Passing the bottle once Sean had handed it to him. “They all will.” He added. 

They’d all been fighting the O’driscolls, perhaps for longer than they knew why. Constantly at odds with this force, these people, who’d never directly given them a reason to hate them. Sure they shot at each other and antagonized one another, which was reason enough to kill them, but now it was more than that. Now, they understood, if only minutely, how Dutch felt. A small glimpse of that hatred and pain. And Dutch would be lying if he didn’t admit that he felt a tinge of happiness at Clive’s death. No, perhaps happiness is too bold a word. Satisfaction, maybe, for now he didn’t have to bother with the rallies or speeches, or words of encouragement. It was vengeance now, for them, just as it was for him, and the drive and yearning for revenge, was likely twice as strong as their loyalty. 

“Just when things get good, seems like they can never stay that way.” Lenny contributed. Though he was referring to his separation from Jenny, more so than Clive’s death. Nods and murmurs of agreement a result of his statement. As well as a brief toast, in which they all took a swig from the bottle. Even Kieran, who’d come to sit among them. Silent and ever tranquil as he was. Given a few questioning glances, but no one seemed to mind. Kid never spoke. Most of them didn’t even know what he sounded like. And he never smiled, nor laughed, nor in any way made an effort to understand the word “fun.” Which meant he never drank either. Something that caught them off guard. Though it seemed a lot was catching them off guard, lately. And if ever there was a time to drink, it was now.

“Hey, speakin’ of things going sour, anyone know what happened to Arthur?” Javier questioned, glancing around at the group who exchanged speculative murmurs, but no one seemed to know. Each glancing over at Dutch’s tent, then Hosea’s. Both men were asleep, and Creed was obviously busy. He shrugged, not knowing who else to ask.

“Too much opium.” Molly stated, hovering above them all. Tilly by her side, though her face was cast downward and she looked ghostly. Morbid and lifeless. “Apparently, Mr. Morgan isn’t the most adept reader.” She added, waving the book in her hand as if to better illustrate her point. Smiling condescendingly, and with pretentious vigor, turned to join the group. If only for a brief moment.  

“Me and Tilly are heading into town. Need to pick up some supplies for Pearson and Creed. Anyone willin’ to escort us?” She questioned, authoritative green eyes burning into each of them. Daring any of them to ignore, and or refuse her. Holding her book across her lap as she sat in the one empty seat left beside Javier. Flicker her gaze from person to person until finally, landing upon Sadie who rolled her eyes and stood.

“S’pose I could go with ya’ll, got some things to take care of anyway.” She offered, approaching Molly, who glanced up at her before rising to her feet. Gesturing for Tilly and Sadie to follow as she led on to the wagon. Hopping aboard elegantly, careful not to catch her dress on the nail jutting from the right side. Ordering Tilly to go grab some sort of cloth for her to sit on, lest she soil her dress on Clive’s dried blood. Sadie took the reins, waiting for Tilly to hop on the back before the trio rode out. Calling to Henry on their way down. Telling him they’d be back in a bit, and where they were going. Even if everyone round the fire already knew. 

“Best be back ‘fore Dutch wakes up. Might want us all to stay together for a bit. Don’t want nobody venturin’ where we can’t see.” He’d advised. Pointing at Molly as if she were the only one to whom he was directly making his point. Something she took slight offence to, though made Sadie snort in amusement. 

If there was one person in camp who felt impervious to the rules, it was Molly O’Shea. Though that was partly Dutch’s fault, for letting her get away with. In fact, most did. If only to avoid having to actually interact with her. And even if Tilly abided her every word, she was more afraid of getting in trouble, than she was of disappointing her mentor. And Sadie had no cause to rebel. Therefore, Molly was the greatest threat to ordinance.

The ride was slow rolling. Boring, and bland, and so Molly asked Tilly to sing a song of some kind. Though promptly told her to can it when she started on about life in the country. Something about green pastures, and a cattle ranch. Something that reminded her both of life with the Van der Lindes, and life at home. Her parents had been very wealthy. Living out in the country in an enormous mansion. She hardly lifted a finger when she was growing up. Had everything she wanted at the tips of her fingers. No one dared tell her no. Her home was the shining reminder of her family’s fortune and prominence. However, out in the fields beyond her father’s land, there were ranchers, and farmers as far as the eye could see. She missed Ireland. Though she’d never admit that. She’d practically cursed the place after she’d left it. Not for a lack of anything she needed, but for a lack of what she wanted. For all the servants, and nobleman, and country folk who always told her “yes.” Laid the world at her feet and gave her everything she could have ever asked for, in truth, all she really wanted, was for someone to tell her “no”.

“Don’t you mind Ms. O’Shea, Tilly. It’s a free country. You keep right on singin’. I quite enjoyed that.” Sadie told her, glaring at Molly who pouted angrily at her. As if she had the gaul to defy her orders. Secretly impressed, for the fact that most didn’t bother themselves by disagreeing with her. Crossing her arms and turning away from the woman. Wondering if perhaps she’d made a new friend. Though she doubted Sadie would see it that way. 

When they rode up, it was quiet, apart from the coroner hammering away at two fresh coffins. Glancing up at the girls, a half toothed grin greeting them. Molly sneered as if disgusted and turned to Sadie, who snorted again, “Was your idea to come here, if I recall. If your grandiose sense of self worth ain’t fittin’ enough for these folk, then I advise you ride on home.” She told her. Halting the wagon at the end of the road. Stepping onto the dirt and helping Tilly down, before vanishing into one of the nearby stores.

“Pearson said he needed some more oats, potatoes, and some bread rolls. Go fetch them.” Molly ordered, handing off a few bills to Tilly, who took them and turned away.

“Yes Ms. Molly.” She replied. Still a bit stiff, and shaken from the sight of Clive’s body that morning, but Molly didn’t care to notice. Walking on her own toward the barber. She’d been needing a haircut. Her red locks had reached about waist length and it was getting to be a hassle to both maintain and style. Pearson hadn’t given her any extra cash to spend, but Creed had. Well, not directly. He’d asked her to fetch a few tonics, but she’d play dumb and get the cheaper ones, therefore she’d have enough to spend on herself. In preparation, she had been wearing her hair up for the past few days, so she doubted anyone would notice if she got a little trim. Especially given that no one paid her any mind in the first place. 

She doubted anyone would even care if she never came back to camp at all. Except perhaps Tilly, though she couldn’t stand the girl. Not for any of her faults, but rather, she was a blind follower. One that never questioned her, and couldn’t think for herself even if Molly told her to. She hated it and yet, Tilly was her only real friend. The only person who cared about her in any way, shape, or form, and for that, she was secretly grateful.

 

*

 

Jake wasn’t a very tough man, but he was certainly a smart one. And as such, he read and wrote quite avidly. In an effort to both maintain his intelligence and pass the time. Shortly after he’d arrived, the Sheriff had given him the rundown of the place, then promptly taken a nap in one of the jail cells. Leaving him to man the front desk, where he sat, reading a novel his mother had given him before falling ill. A difficult book to read, for the fact that a number of the chapters were in dutch, her native language, and in regards to it, he was rusty. Squinting harshly at the sharp words written in a conglomeration of letters. Attempting to decipher one in particular that looked as though it read “lot”, but he knew it to mean something else. Something that was sitting on the tip of his tongue. Wracking his brain as he sat dumbfounded, staring blankly at the word until jumping in his seat at the sound of the door bursting open.

He dropped his book into his lap and stared up at a woman in a lavish green dress with golden embroidery. Rose red hair pinned upon her head, accompanied by a rather furious expression. One that illustrated a conflict of some kind. He slowly placed the novel on the desk and rightened himself in his seat. Waiting expectantly for her to speak. Watching the stranger as she opened her mouth, pausing when a groggy voice, belonging to Wykeham called out loudly into the room.

“That was an awfully dramatic entrance.” He stated, “Need I be worried?”

Wiser stood hesitantly. Examining the woman before calling back, “I don’t believe so.” 

“Ok.” The man replied, repositioning his hat over his face as he drifted back to sleep.

Wiser stepped around the desk. Offering a seat to the woman, who held up her hand in refusal. Head tilting, eyes burning, steam practically misting from her ears.

“I paid that lousy barber you’ve got to cut my hair. A fair price. The price he told me, at least, and what does he do? Takes my money and puts it in his pocket!” She barked, practically shouting at Wiser, who nodded along, brows raised, trying to keep up with her as the words left her mouth in a hurry. Glancing toward the jail block as if expecting help from the Sheriff who was still, and likely would be for a long time, passed out on one of the cell’s mattresses. Confused and unsure as to how to handle the situation for a moment before slowly questioning, “Um...so?”

“Well does my hair look cut to you? I gave him my money and he turns his back on me. I asked him what his problem was, and he tells me he’s never seen me in his life! That was good money, that was!” She told him, gesturing madly, face reddening in frustration as the man continued to stare at her. Swallowing and pursing his lips as he slowly nodded along and gestured for her to lead the way.

“I’ll uh, see what I can do Miss...?”

“O’Shea.”

“Miss O’Shea.” He murmured. Following the woman as she stomped across the street. Very obviously in no mood for games and the second she set foot in the building all eyes shifted to her. A deep groan escaped the barber as he sized Wiser up. Flicking his gaze between the pair, arms crossed, defiant expression already proving to be difficult.

“Give me my money.” She demanded, foot stopping into the floor like that of a toddler mid-tantrum. Fists clenched, teeth grinding loudly as both men examined her.

“What money?” He questioned obnoxiously. Smirking as she snarled at him, muttering curses under her breath as Wiser sighed deeply and stepped between the two.

“Miss O’Shea here, seems to think you’ve robbed her. Is that the case?” He questioned. 

The barber rolled his eyes, “She asked me to cut her hair, eye, but first she came in, prancin’ about, sayin’ she was royalty or whatnot. Tryin’ to get it done for free. I told her I didn’t care if she was the bloody queen. This is my shop, and in my shop, you pay no matter who you are. So she rolled those pretty little green eyes and tried to cheat me. Tried to give me half what I normally take. So I told her I wouldn’t take it. She then went on to curse me, my mother and my family, before handin’ over the cash. So eye, I took her money. But robbery’s a strong word for it.”

Wiser sighed again. Glancing at the two. While the barber did have the right to refuse service, he didn’t have the right to steal from her. Though, if what he claimed was true, he couldn’t blame the man. Scratching dully at the back of his head. He didn’t know either of these folks well enough to gauge the repercussions of his decision. Obviously the barber lived in town, but the way he spoke of this woman...Miss O’Shea, implied she was a stranger. So on base instinct he was inclined to lean in favor of the barber. Though the way she was looking at him, angry, though, eyes pleading something desperate, he couldn’t seem to.

“Alright well you’ve got two options.” He began, turning to the man again, “Cut her hair, or give her, her money back.”

The barber shook his head, instantly offended and prepared to defend himself, “She-”

“I don’t care what she did. You were paid to do a service. Now do it, or cough up the cash.” He demanded, admittedly a bit surprised by his own tone of authority. He wasn’t normally one to incite violence or provoke any kind of conflict, but the determination in his eyes and loose hand on the grip of his cattleman nearly did both. Daring the man to argue with him. Admittedly drunk on the power he felt, if only for a moment, before the man rolled his shoulders and sighed. Holding out the woman’s cash between two fingers. Suppressing a snarl and sneer as Wiser nodded to him and ushered the woman out. 

“Now Ma’am, this time, I sided with you. However, I’m not in the habit of encouraging braggarts. So next time, I might be less inclined to do so. Keep that in mind next time you’re in town, and...try to stay out of trouble.” He told her, stern gaze meant to either intimidate, or ward her off. Though softened at her meek glare. 

“I never said those things. I won’t have you believin’ I did.” She growled. Crossing her arms. Audacity burning in her eyes as she watched the man. Each feature as he examined her own. Attempting to formulate a response. 

“I don’t think it matter much what I believe, Ma’am. Good day to you.” He told her, brushing past as he crossed the dirt road between them. Trotting up the steps of the Sheriff’s office, glancing back hesitantly at the woman before slipping inside. Seated once more at the desk. Contemplating briefly his actions and sudden bravery in the presence of this stranger. Sitting in silence for several moments until snapping back suddenly to reality, peering down at the book he’d been reading. Picking it up once more and opening to the page in which he’d left off. Staring again at that word, “lot.”

And for the life of him, he couldn’t remember what it meant.

 

*

 

It was spring, if he remembered correctly. Cold, bitter, wind finally dying down into only a gentle breeze which tugged loosely at the fresh leaves blooming from the tops of oaks and pines. It had been only a couple months since Arthur had joined up with John, Dutch, and Hosea. He was still young and energetic, and though they weren’t exactly wanted or well known at that point, both men insisted they lie low. However, they could hardly stop the boys from venturing out into the forest just to have a little fun every so often. And though they hadn’t known each other long, an outsider would never be able to tell that they weren’t brothers. That they hadn’t known each other since birth. John was a bit older, but he wasn’t so mature, or pretentious that he’d forgotten how to have fun. Most days, they’d either pretend to be gunslingers, or built a tee-pee out of sticks and mud. Chasing rabbits or catching squirrels. 

This was a rare memory for Arthur. One reason being that it was one of the seldom times in which he was got to be a kid. Another being, that before that day, he’d never killed anyone. Or anything. Though tough and generally stone faced in the presence of Dutch or Hosea, or really anyone for that matter, his heart was still full of compassion. Faith, and hope, and a need to make everything right. In the simplest of ways. In the only ways he could. He couldn’t remember what game they’d been playing, or what really, they’d been doing in general, but he remembered hearing it. A cold, weak whimper among the silence of the trees. A gentle tweet. So soft and quiet that he’d barely heard it at all. Stopped dead in his tracks; a righteous need filling his chest. One he couldn’t describe. Given a bewildered sneer and chuckle from John, as he searched slowly through the brush. Creeping hesitant and discreetly until his eyes landed upon a lightly feathered bird. Though he wouldn’t go so far as to say they were real feathers. More or less, feather shaped fluff.

“We have to find its nest.” He’d told John, followed by the older boy who shook his head and laughed. Trotting alongside Arthur who settled the fragile creature into the front pocket of his shirt. Climbing skillfully up a number of nearby trees. Worrying John quite a bit, given his height off the ground, and determination. Glancing repeatedly in the direction of their camp. Wondering how he’d explain Arthur’s potential plummeting to his death to Hosea or Dutch.

“A-Arthur maybe you oughta come down from there!” He’d called. Waving the younger of the two down. Breathing a brief sigh of relief as Arthur complied. Rolling his eyes, stiff and reluctant to follow as Arthur then promptly began up another. 

“Arthur, it really ain’t that important. It’s just a bird.” John told him, hand on hips as he gazed up the trunk of the tree Arthur was in such a hurry to climb.

“If I want your opinion John, I’ll be sure to ask for it.” Arthur fired back. Throwing down a stick at his brother who sidestepped to avoid it. Glancing again toward the camp. Anxious that one of the men would erupt from the bushes and reprimand him on his poor babysitting skills. Yell at them both for being careless and stupid. 

It was after his third tree that Arthur heard Hosea calling for him. Shooting practice, as was mandatory for him every morning; leaving him both disappointed and unsure what to do. Peering down at the bird in his pocket. Listening to it’s soft chirps. Something in him urging him to protect it. To keep it safe. Something inexplicably kind and heartfelt that John could see in his eyes. Shifting from foot to foot as they stood side by side. Listening to Hosea in the distance, though neither were yet willing to move. 

“Give it to me.” John said finally, breaking the stark silence between them. Extending his palm, and doing his best to ignore the bewildered and apprehensive eyes Arthur flicked to him. “Go on over to Hosea. I’ll find its nest.” 

For a long while, Arthur did nothing but stare at him. Not yet certain if he could trust the older boy. Eyes narrowing, questioning gaze burning into John’s. Hand cupped around his pocket, thumbing the fabric thoughtlessly as the seconds ticked on. Faint chirping the only sound which kept him grounded. Hesitantly removing the creature. Glancing down at it, then up to John, and back again.

“You promise?” He questioned. Voice low and warningful. Almost afraid in a way. 

John nodded, though slightly confused, unsure as to what could possibly be so important.

“Say it.” Arthur ordered, urging John to meet his eyes. Watching the elusive brown irises which dilated fluidly with the ever changing light. Waiting expectantly as John sighed, as if exasperated and tilted his head.

“I promise.” He said. Tone even, void of deceit, influencing Arthur after a moment or two, to trade off the delicate creature. Placing it gently in John’s hands. Glancing between the two a number of times before taking a step back. Breathing deeply as he watched the older of the two analyze the bird. It’s fragile nature and inherent weakness. Hoping whatever had overtaken Arthur, would overtake John. Hoping, he would keep his promise. Trusting him, truly, for the first time since they’d met, even if this particular situation didn’t seem as detrimental as those which would surely arise in the future.

He remembered that feeling. Trust. The first time he’d ever really felt it. Sure, he may have trusted Dutch and Hosea, to an extent; enough to join them on their way westward, however it had been only a means to an end in his mind. A free trip. He hadn’t intended really, on staying. He hadn’t allowed himself the luxury of trust. Until then. When John proved to be more than a business partner, or associate. He was like a brother. A brother Arthur had always wanted, and yet, never had. Until then. Faith placed in John, and in turn Dutch and Hosea, which was enough to make him stick around. Thankful now, that he had. Otherwise he wasn’t sure what would have become of him. 

He remembered that day. For some reason, in the vague, stuffy, emptiness that was his mind, that’s what he remembered. 

He’d always wondered if John ever really found that nest. He knew as much as he’d been told, and John had always said he had, but Arthur had never been certain. He never exactly, doubted John, he had no reason to, but, something in his gut had always had some reservations about the subject.  John wasn’t typically a liar. Despite the best efforts of his conning mentors. He’d never been particularly good at it, and so if he had lied, Arthur figured he’d be more impressed now, than he would be angry. After all he’d killed a lot more than birds in recent years. Whether John had abandoned it, or perhaps even put it out of its misery, Arthur wouldn’t be much more than a hypocrite if it made him upset. The sweet innocence and faith of childhood had long since left him, and he wasn’t sure whether or not it even mattered by now. Though he wondered nonetheless.

When at last, his recollection came to an end, and the memory had melted into vague guesswork as to what happened next, he could feel himself stirring. Arms and legs jolting as he slowly came to, blurry eyes fluttering open. Taking into account the tarp which danced above him. Vague shapes and colours bouncing in his periphery as his vision swam. Head tilting gently, side to side, as the world swayed. Noticing the outline of an all too familiar figure sitting beside him. Focusing on it, recognizing a pair of brown eyes, which gazed at him sympathetically. They belonged to a rugged face. One with a beard quite a bit longer than his own. Longer than he remembered it being, though it’d been a long time since they’d seen one another. 

“Hey John…” He heard himself murmur, watching the expression which stared down at him blankly. Almost as if it were a statue, incapable of moving. Stone cold and almost unsettling. Blinking a number of times, as if expecting the man to vanish. Drawing in a deep breath as at last, he shifted. Leaning forward, forearms resting on his knees.

“Hey Arthur.” He replied, worn voice both groggy and weak. He looked tired. Not more so than Arthur, but given that he couldn’t see himself, in comparison, John looked utterly wretched

“Where ya been?” Arthur asked, tongue numbing up in his mouth. Swelling to take up the empty space. Leaving him mute and for a moment, incapable of any coherent thoughts. Briefly considering where he was and how he’d gotten there before redirecting his attention to John, who shrugged.

“Nowhere really.” He replied. Tilting his head a bit. Hand reaching out to smooth back Arthur’s hair. It was then that the boy realized how intensely he was perspiring. As if fighting off a fever, though he didn’t feel hot. Each strand, slicked against his head with sweat. 

“We been missin’ you John.” Arthur managed to say. Blood rushing loudly through his ears, contributing to the splitting headache which slowly began to stem from the crown of his head. Flooding gradually through the rest of it. Ignoring it, to the best of his ability, as he focused on his brother.

“No you ain’t. If ever I came back Ms. Grimshaw’d hang me for sure. The others would likely just stand there and watch.” He replied, half-hearted, pained chuckled escaping him. Thumbing absentmindedly at the brim of his hat.

“Well.” Arthur slurred, clearing his throat and pausing for a moment, “I been missin’ you. Dutch’s been...drivin’ me crazy John.” He closed his eyes for a moment and sighed indignantly, “And don’t get me- don’t get me started on Micah.”

When their gazes met, Arthur couldn’t tell if John’s features had faltered at the naming of Dutch, or Micah. Furrowing his brows for a moment as he attempted to decipher the enigmatic expression John twisted into a mask of something like desperation. Inching closer to Arthur and glancing around before widening his eyes a bit, indicating that what he was about to say was incredibly important. Crucial, in some way. 

“Don’t trust him Arthur. You can’t trust him.” He said, low and cautious, shaking his head as Arthur parted his lips, tempted to ask who, or what John was talking about. Why now of all times, would he come back, and with such a vague warning.

“Don’t fall for it, Arthur. I know you ain’t too smart. But I know you ain’t stupid either. He’s gonna bring them all down. The whole gang.” Arthur blinked, trying desperately to keep up, though, every time his eyes shut, only to open again, it felt as though time had passed unseen.

“John-”

“Promise me.” He said. Voice low and warningful. Almost afraid in a way. 

Arthur nodded, though confused nonetheless. Mind swimming in thought which tried fruitlessly to make sense of his brother’s words.

“Say it.” John ordered, urging Arthur to meet his eye. Watching the elusive blue eyes which dilated fluidly with Arthur's ever changing state of mind. Waiting expectantly until he saw the abrupt shift in Arthur’s eyes. Expression falling into one of monotone belligerence, near instantaneously. Questions, and doubts, and all thoughts in general, slipping abruptly from his mind. Replaced only with trust.

“I promise.” he said.


	12. Bury Me Not on The Lonesome Prairie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We suffer often more in imagination, than reality.

Clive had been buried in town. He’d been given a quaint funeral, one of few words, and even fewer prayers. Outlaws didn’t deserve the grace of God. That was something someone always murmured at a funeral like this; even if no one was quite sure from where that quote had originated from. Likely one of Dutch’s hard cover, three hundred page, eight letter font, philosophy books. Though, it was likely a paraphrase, if anything. A fraction of the sentiment which was likely explained in agonizing detail over the course of about a dozen pages. It was a wonder that Dutch could ever finish one of those books for the fact that it took about a whole chapter, just for them to explain a single concept. Like why, outlaws didn’t deserve the grace of God. No one had ever really thought to ask themselves that. They were mortal men, with mortal sins, and so it just kind of made sense. Unlike the highfalutin words of accomplished authors, it was simple. Obvious. Blatantly clear. 

Their transgressions were too many to count.

And therefore, respectively, they were also, too many to forgive.

 

_ “Outlaws don’t deserve the grace of God.” _

 

They’d debated carving that on his tombstone, though figured that might be unwise. Vandalism on church grounds was rare. Much less on grave sites, but, the word “outlaw” would be too tempting to step away from. Colm and men like him ran rampant through the world, killing everything that was pure and good. The term outlaw, for a select amount of time had been something dubious, rather than wicked, or evil. It had been the child-like innocence of an orphan pickpocket. The justice of vigilante revenge, when the law did nothing but wait. It was more heroic, in a way, than it was wrong. Like robin hood, which was what Dutch had found so alluring about it. At least, in the beginning. In the lawless west, where there were bad guys, sure, but they’d always been “criminals”, “convicts”, “murderers”. All those slanderous terms they’d read off once you had a rope around your neck. Fibre weaves digging into your flesh and you knew you were done for. 

Dutch wasn’t quite sure at what point things had shifted. At what point “Outlaw” meant criminal. At what point that magnificent illusion of heroism had been shattered and all that was left were the broken remains of a dream that had always been laced with words he’d always known, and yet never heeded. Too good to be true. He didn't really know why it had happened. Perhaps the bad men began to outnumber the good ones. Perhaps the distinction became less clear. In truth he wondered if anyone could even see the difference between men like him, and men like Colm. Where one ended and the other began. Or if they were blinded only by the fact that they sinned. Not caring to make a distinction between which sin was worse. Robbing. Or killing. He often found himself wondering, how it seemed that no one else could see the world the way he did. Life, and all its complexities. He wondered quite a lot, these days. And one of those things he wondered, was at what point, the word “Outlaw”. The one with evil connotations and dark undertones. The one that made people shiver or sulk in fear. The one that he’d been trying to kill all his life -- he wondered at what point that word had begun to mean him.

 

*

 

They settled on “Rest in Peace.”

Though it wasn’t exactly characteristic or unique to him in any way, it seemed fitting. It was clear to just about anyone who’d met him, that he’d been a hollow shell. Only a piece of a man who had died long before his body had. A ghost, stuck in a shell that demanded revenge. That demanded repentance for his tragic life. If anything, they figured it’s what he’d have wanted. All he’d ever wanted. 

To rest in peace.

With his family.

The whole camp had attended. Those who remained that is, except of course for Arthur who was incapacitated and still unaware of the tragedy that had struck, apart from his own, and Bill who grudgingly sat, watching him. Well, he wasn’t watching him, so much as he was sitting next to him. Drinking frequently and with determination. As if he were in a contest with someone. Whoever downed their bottle first, would pay for the next round. Though of course, Bill won every time. And he paid for it too. Standing up after several hours of silence, close and careful footsteps shifting him to the edge of camp. He’d been drinking all day, so it was a wonder he hadn’t had to go earlier -- however, just as he found a rather sizable tree on which to take care of his business, a sudden dizziness took him. Darkness enveloping a drunken man, who groaned indignantly. Sprawled out across the dirt.

When Dutch and the others returned he found that he wasn’t surprised to find Bill missing. In fact it had been his own foolishness which trusted the man to watch over Arthur. He was definitely the man you’d want by your side in a gunfight, however, he was also the man you definitely wouldn’t want by your side on your deathbed. He was very limited in that sense. Though he couldn’t expect most of these men to be able to care for another human being, as they had trouble enough caring for themselves. Clive was proof of that. Though he had done better than anyone else would have, he suspected. At least, that’s what he’d convinced himself, until prompted to smile smally at the thought of Arthur pulling his gun on those O'Driscoll fools, faster than they could register. Shooting each one dead so quickly that anyone listening in would hear only the first shot. Unable to process the speed of those that followed. Of course, this was only mere speculation, as he was unsure as to the circumstances which had killed Clive. 

Still.

Certainly it had been Hosea that taught Arthur how to shoot, not that there was much to teach, given that the boy was a born prodigy, however it had always been Dutch’s sense of pride. He could still clearly remember the first bank robbery they’d ever taken him on. Normally, it would be Arthur, outside holding the horses. Keeping an eye out for trouble, though this time, it had been John. The two had switched places for the first time, and both men had been anxious. Unsure as to how things might turn out. They’d trained him well enough. He knew how to shoot. How to move quickly and intimidate people. How to control a crowd. Though they were anxious nonetheless. Everything had gone smoothly. Satchels filled up to the brim without a hitch. That is until the Sheriff returned from his evening stroll, aimless scream from one of the hostages capturing his attention. Dutch and Hosea both pressed against the wall on either side of the door. Instantly plotting and planning and thinking of what to do as the Sheriff and his deputies stood crowded on the street. Calling the three of them out. He remembered, watching in utter horror, as Arthur stepped through the door. Both men rushed out after him. Scrambling to provide aid, however, once their boots stepped out onto the porch, they found four dead bodies, and a smoking gun.

Dutch never doubted Arthur again.

Trelawny and his traveling party returned later that night with enough cash to take them as far as Australia, or the Orient, where they’d have all been able to live peacefully for perhaps a year or more. Imagine that. Though if they were thinking about going anywhere, they’d have gone somewhere south. Somewhere tropical. Dutch had always heard that Tahiti was nice this time of year. 

It was split right down the middle. After everyone got their shares of course, half of it was taken down to the train station where it would be escorted by Lenny out to the ladies. As he’d been complaining about not being able to properly say goodbye to Jenny. If he’d have been in his right mind, Dutch would have sent Arthur, as he wasn’t supposed to be there anyway. But he figured then that maybe fate was trying to tell him something. That maybe if he managed to keep his eyes on Arthur, and he didn’t blink for long enough, maybe he wouldn’t lose him too. Especially in light of the fact that very same train on which Lenny had been riding got robbed. A lot of folks ended up getting killed. But not Lenny. For once the racist and condescending attitudes of people down south had benefited him. He’d been forced to ride in the back, in the cattle car. Suitcases full of cash tucked under either arm. Unharmed, when everything had been said and done.

That was twice. Twice in which Arthur would have been killed. Once, had he taken Clive’s place, and once, had he taken Lenny’s. Of course, Dutch didn’t find out about Lenny until a day or so later, when he’d written to tell them he’d be back as soon as he could be. He wasn’t sure what to make of that. Both these instances in which Arthur had avoid certain death, simply by being a simpleton. By being ignorant. Something Dutch had always scolded him for and yet here, it had saved his life not once, but twice. It may have been written in a book somewhere that outlaws didn’t deserve the grace of God, but right then, it seemed like Arthur had broken that rule, and was basking in it. Soaking up every ounce of that grace, until his skin had become warm and tan again, and he was no longer incapable of clear thought.

“By all accounts he should be dead.” Creed had told him.

No. No, it hadn’t been twice, that Arthur’s life had been saved by his own idiocy, but three times. Dutch could only puzzle over this matter in his mind. Thinking about it from every angle. Trying to figure how this could be justified simply by luck or coincidence. He’d never really believed in God. He’d estimate that not many of them did. Least of all Colm’s men. Though he’d always found it kind of strange, how when he lowered the barrel of his gun into a man’s face, atheist or not, they’d be muttering a prayer under their breath, before he shot them. He figured that’s what he was doing now. Thinking about how Arthur had defied their creed of sorts. How he’d defied all logic and intelligence and still remained, for the most part, unharmed. He hoped that it was the grace of God. He hoped that it had saved Arthur’s life, and that it had shielded him in some way. That it would continue to shield him, for he knew once they got after Colm, the first person they’d put their cross-hairs on -- would be Arthur.

 

*

 

“Finally!” Micah exclaimed, hands thrown up in the air triumphantly. Curling into fists as he brought them down to his sides, “I thought we’d never find that rat-faced son of a bitch.” He added. As if he understood even a fraction of the hate which accompanied the thought of killing him. For Micah, he was merely an annoyance. And he figured he had more of a reason to be so blatantly supportive of Dutch’s plan in light of Clive’s death. Not that he had the capacity to care about it. 

“Well don’t get too excited.” Dutch warned, hands on hips as he gestured down to the map laid out across the table. Drawing all the eyes around him down to the sketched square around the O’Driscoll’s presupposed campsite. Javier had been sent to check each day, and thus far, it hadn’t moved. “I’m going with Javier and Charles today to scope out the area. You, Bill, and Henry’ll clean the guns and make sure we’ve got enough ammunition to go around.”

“What about us Dutch?” Mac and Davey asked, almost in unison. Voices stacking messily atop one another, causing each to sneer at the other. Eyes wide, feet shifting excitedly on the dirt. They were expecting an important job of some kind. One that either entailed killing, or sneaking around unseen. Not that they were very good at that. However, Dutch decided to kill two birds with one stone as he gave them a job which had the chance of ensuring both.

“As you know, Clive got gunned down in Maxwell. I expect Colm might be looking for the man who killed his men, because as far as he knows, Clive’s alive and well. I want you boys to scout out and look for any O’Driscolls that might be getting a little too close for comfort.” He told them.

“Want us to kill ‘em?” Davey asked, as they’d learned to do. The Callendar boys may have been immature, and a tad slow on most fronts, but they had a habit of being vicious too. Being truly and utterly despicable in some aspects. One being the seemingly insatiable mantra in their head which continually chants, “ _ Kill, Kill, Kill _ .” A fact which had gotten them into trouble more than once, on account of Dutch not liking innocent bystanders. He was fine with killing law men, because they’d chosen their profession, and if they got killed, that was their fault. He was fine with killing criminals for the same reason. However, nothing ever sat right with him about killing a woman, or child, or even man who just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. It had taken a long time for the Callendar boys to realize this, as they had always been of the mindset, “Shoot first, shoot again, shoot their grandma, their sister, their brother, their best friend, all their cousins, and then ask questions.” And it wasn’t necessarily because they were bad people. Rather, they didn’t seem to grasp the gravity of killing a person. They weren’t quite -- smart enough, he supposed, to get why it was wrong to kill everyone they saw.

“Yes.” He said, admittedly a bit annoyed, though glad that they had bothered to ask him to clarify, “I would like you to kill them.”

Both giggled evilly, flashing each other toothy grins as they ran off like excited children. Racing to their horses to the amusement of everyone there, who watched them, unsure as to how and why they’d joined the gang. Nor how they’d managed to survive this long.

“What about Princess, over there?” Micah jested, pointing with a lazy hand in the direction of Arthur’s tent. Cackling wickedly when Dutch glared at him. Not even bothering to turn to see where exactly he was directing his words. 

“I don’t think I’ll dignify that with a response.” He grumbled, turning to Sadie and Sean who stood to his right, “Keep your guard up. Mrs. Adler, watch the hill please. Sean, why don’t you stand guard down the road a ways.”

They both nodded and moved without question. Everyone did. Doing what they were told to do. Except of course, Micah, who still hadn’t been told in exact detail, what had happened to either Arthur or Clive. And considering it was his nature to make jokes about things he shouldn’t have, no one was going to. It wasn’t that he cared, or that it was particularly important, for him to know what had debilitated Arthur. Rather, he liked to know that he was vulnerable. That he wasn’t this impenetrable wall of adolescent rage. Arthur had long been the poster-child of perfection. Micah was glad to see that perhaps that position would be opening soon.

“Get going.” Dutch ordered. Jaw clenched, eyes burning. Micah had an aggravating nature about him. It seemed as though everything he did was in an effort to annoy as many people as possible. It was useful, at times, though that was seldom. Now, it was more of a liability than an asset.

“Sure thing, boss.” The man replied, tilting his hat and walking briskly away. No snickering. No snide remarks muttered under his breath. Dutch narrowed his eyes. Watching him as he vanished behind one of the tents. Shaking his head after a moment and glancing back over his shoulder at Arthur. He was awake now, at the very least, but was almost entirely unintelligible. He’d just stare at the ceiling and mutter abstract phrases that no one had yet been able to decipher. Hosea was watching him now. As he would while Dutch and the others headed out. 

It wasn’t far. At least, not as far as Dutch had envisioned. Regardless of known distance, whenever he thought about Colm, or pictured him, rather, it was on the other side of the world. Being on the same continent, the same country, the same state.  _ The same town _ . It just seemed, almost foreign in a way. As though they were riding into China, rather than on a mountainside, where at the bottom -- were Colm and his men. He wasn’t sure what he’d do. Once he saw Colm after all these years. After all the pain and misery he had forced the man to feel. Dutch wasn’t entirely sure he trusted himself. For if he saw Colm, he didn’t know if he’d be able to let the opportunity pass him by. He still had that Carcano rifle. The one Arthur had nearly killed himself over. He’d intended to use it like this. To end him in a heartbeat from a mile away. They didn’t need another bloodbath. No more men had to die. Just Colm.

However, as confident as Dutch was with his ability to con and to swindle, he wasn’t too terribly good of a shot. Can’t be the best at everything, he figured. That was Arthur’s fortee. Though he didn’t expect his surrogate son to be prepared for battle anytime soon. And even if he was, Dutch wanted the last say. He wanted to pull the trigger. He wanted to see the fear in Colm’s eyes right before he blew his brains right through his skull. Or maybe he’d stab him straight through the heart. Slow and agonizing painful. Maybe then he’d understand what he’d done to Duch. How he had felt, after finding Annabell. He longed to inflict that kind of pain on him. To rip something out of him like he had done to Dutch. To kill him in a way that didn’t really kill him -- like Dutch.

However, Dutch always figured the difference, the  _ real _ difference between him and Colm, was that where Colm inflicted pain, Dutch imparted mercy. He was going to kill Colm, there was no question about that. No doubt in his mind, and there was just about nothing on the planet that could stop him. But the manner in which he killed him. A bullet in the head. A knife through the heart. It was humane. And it certainly provided the kind of dignity Colm did not deserve. And that’s why it was mercy. To kill him. For if Dutch could have shown him what it felt like...if he could have shown Colm exactly what it was like to lose the person you loved most on the entire planet -- well -- sometimes dead is better. 

It wasn’t a large camp. There were about thirty or so men. Maybe less, but Dutch was overestimating. Preparing for the worst case scenario. He knew they would be outnumbered. They always were where Colm was concerned. Though, they still had the advantage of surprise. They still had the upper hand, in regards to position and planning. Colm had never been the best tactician. He was of the firm belief that if you threw enough men at a problem, eventually it would go away. Which was why, rather than sending in two or three people, perhaps five at the most, in order to rob a bank both quietly and discreetly, he’d send a dozen or more. By the time he was done with it, there wouldn’t be a bank left at all. Something Dutch supposed was another one of their differences.

Colm was an idiot.

Though, he was conniving and smart enough to have survived all this time. That, Dutch couldn’t deny. After all, how long had they been at each other's throats?

 

*

 

Lenny had never been all that good at lying, until he’d joined the gang. Until he’d been forced to get good at it. Whether it be stalling folk, so that someone with more nimble finger than himself could rob them blind. Or perhaps, as a distraction. Luring unsuspecting victims away so the gang could scope out an area of interest. He was good at it now, but, he wasn’t all that fond of it. 

He didn’t tell Abigail about Clive. He couldn't. He’d told himself he would. That he’d tell all of them, and what Dutch planned to do about it. About how they’d avenge him. But, when he saw her, holding Jack and looking so hopeful. Asking how Clive was, and if he was still shaken about their encounter, Lenny couldn’t help but say, “He’s fine.”

How could he crush her like that? She had already blamed herself for John’s leaving. Claiming if she had been better, or if she hadn’t been so weak, perhaps he wouldn’t have left. Now he didn’t quite understand the dynamics of their relationship. He’d never really asked. Therefore he couldn't have said whether or not her words held any truth. But he did know, undoubtedly, that Clive’s death would rest heavily on her shoulders. That she would think it was on her hands. She wouldn’t see it as the O’Driscolls murdering another camp member. She would only see that he had taken a bullet for her. And if she hadn’t existed, maybe he’d have never died a all. He couldn’t do that to her. He couldn’t put those thoughts in her head. She didn’t deserve it, and Jack didn’t deserve it either. 

He knew eventually she would find out. That he was only postponing the inevitable, but, Abigail had been in an inconsolably depressed state for over a year now. Almost two. She was happy now, and he couldn’t take that away from her. Even if it was under false pretenses, it was nice to see her smile. Just for a little while longer. 

Then the sky could fall. 

And they’d be back at square one.

He lied to Karen too. When she asked why Sean hadn’t come with him. Just to visit for a day, before they returned to planning and killing. She asked, and Lenny told her that he’d been busy. That Dutch had him working so hard for once in his miserable life, that he couldn’t have come. Even if he wanted to. She was satisfied by that answer. Satisfied, but disappointed. And he could feel something rotten churning in his stomach, because the real reason Sean hadn’t come, was in his back pocket. 

A letter to Mary-Beth. 

He didn’t ask what was in it. 

But he didn’t have to. 

The one solace of his trip, was seeing Jenny. Beautiful, wide eyed, everything-he’d-ever-wanted-in-a-woman, Jenny. Lenny had never been much of a romantic, and neither had she, but given that this was the last time they’d see each other for a long time, if ever, he wanted to make it memorable. 

They had a picnic. Down by the lake. He told her everything then. He hadn’t planned on it, but, she had such a way of looking at him...it made the whole world melt away. Every repercussion sliding down off his shoulders. As if they’d never existed in the first place. Jenny understood. Perhaps even better than he did. The complexities of lying, especially in a time like this. She knew Abigail better than he did, and she conquered, that the best course of action in that particular circumstance was to lie. To give her hope and happiness for just a little while longer. Sure she’d be crushed when she discovered the truth, but she’d have been crushed either way. 

However, where Karen and Mary-Beth were concerned, she hadn’t had much to say.

Karen and Mary-Beth were her best friends, more than that, her only friends. And she had watched them, over the years, tear at each other’s throats. More so Karen than Mary-Beth, however. 

They had the dynamic of sisters. One always trying to be prettier, or smarter, or better than the other. Though in recent years, they’d excelled at their own set of skills. Mary-Beth read, and wrote better than perhaps anyone in camp. She had a way with words, and a calm way of putting things that was very much the opposite of Karen, who was blunt and straight to the point. 

And Karen had excelled at something that, was perhaps more of an unhealthy habit, than a skill. She could drink just about anyone under the table. Even Bill at times, who was a raging alcoholic. She often wondered about that.

Sean had been the first person they didn’t fight over. Men had a habit of picking Mary-Beth over Karen. Simply for her refined nature, and soft-spoken attitude. Sean hadn’t really expressed much of an interest in her. And even if she thought he was handsome, and intriguing in his own way, she hadn’t pushed it. For she knew how much Karen liked him. And even if they were competitive, it didn’t mean they didn’t love one another. 

She couldn’t imagine how Karen would react. How Mary-Beth would react. It wasn’t Lenny’s fault that Sean had given him that letter to pass on. It was on Mary-Beth now. If she told Karen, Jenny wouldn’t say anything. She wouldn’t have to. And she’d have even more respect for both of them, if they were able to move past it.

However. If Mary-Beth kept the letter to herself. Or heaven forbid, she had the audacity to write back; Jenny would have no choice but to tell Karen the truth.


End file.
